


I'll Be Seeing You

by reindeerjumper



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chaptered, F/M, Flashbacks, Grandparents & Grandchildren, I'm Sorry, The WW2 AU Nobody Asked For
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 21:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10816881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/pseuds/reindeerjumper
Summary: Almost 60 years after World War II, Bridget's granddaughter finds a box of mementos in a closet. Inside the box are memories of a man who isn't her grandfather, and Bridget has to face some ghosts that she hasn't dealt with in a long time.





	1. August 1939

**Author's Note:**

> Truly, I'm sorry about this entire fic in advance. This fandom has never been one for angst, but this idea has been eating away at my free time and I _have_ to write it. Not sure how many chapters we'll end up with...I'm still outlining the entire thing, but I'm thinking somewhere around 10 (which scares the crap out of me). I'm hoping to update this regularly, so keep your fingers crossed!

**2001 : London**

 

“Gram? Gram, I found something that you might be interested in…”

Walking out of the closet she was helping her grandmother clean out, Molly Cleaver held a wooden box in her hands that clearly had seen better days. The varnish on the box was covered in dust, and the sporadically placed stickers on the sides were faded and peeling. On the front of the box was a clasp that was securely closed.

Looking up from the box of sweaters she was going through, Bridget wrinkled her brow in confusion when she saw her granddaughter approaching with the box. “Where in the world did you find that?” she murmured, pulling off the glasses that sat on the tip of her nose. 

“Up in the closet, behind a stack of magazines. Did you want to bring it with you to our house? I can put it in the keep pile.”

The pile Molly had gestured to was growing by the second. Bridget hadn’t wanted to move in with her son and daughter-in-law, but she was 80-years-old, almost 81, and things were just getting too hard for her to manage on her own. It had been almost five years since Daniel had died suddenly from an aneurysm, and she couldn’t deny the feeling of loneliness any longer. When her son Andrew had offered to have her move in with him and his family, she mulled the decision over for a few weeks before finally agreeing. The afternoon spent with her granddaughter was already lifting her spirits, even if it meant dismantling 51 years memories in a matter of a few hours. 

“No, don’t put it in the pile yet. Bring it here,” Bridget said, waving her hand at her granddaughter to approach. Molly brought the box over to Bridget and placed it on the table in front of her. Hesitantly, Bridget ran a hand across the dust-covered top, leaving four perfectly spaced streaks arcing across the lacquer. “I haven’t seen this in years,” she said, more to herself than to Molly.

Dragging a chair out beside her grandmother, Molly said, “What is it, Gram?”

“Oh, just a box of memories,” Bridget murmured, her thumb resting on the clasp but making no effort to open it.

“What’s in it?”

“Photographs...some letters. Maybe a ticket stub or two.”

“Is it stuff from when you and Gramps were dating?”

Bridget hummed low in her throat, the sound more sad than anything. “No, not quite from then. This was from before that...during the war.”

Molly knew that her grandmother had been incredibly involved in World War II--once she was able to, Bridget Jones had thrown herself headfirst into helping the war effort. She worked in factories, helping to sew uniforms for the soldiers, but she didn’t talk much about the nostalgic part of the war--it was mostly bravado about the effort everyone made to win the war and bring their boys back home. From across the table, Molly could tell that the box in front of her grandmother was more than bravado.

“Are you going to open it?” Molly asked quietly. She absentmindedly stretched a hand across the tabletop towards her grandmother. Bridget silently took her granddaughter’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous about seeing all of the things in here again,” Bridget admitted, giving Molly a smirk. “But I’d also be lying if I said I wasn’t extremely curious.” She chewed at the inside of her cheek before looking back up at Molly. “You open it. I’m too nervous.” Bridget shoved the lacquered box towards Molly, then promptly folded her hands in her lap.

Hesitantly, Molly took the box from Bridget and pulled it towards her. Slipping the clasp out from its hold, Molly opened the hinged lid of the box and looked down inside. Staring back up at her were old, weathered pieces of paper with an unrecognizable scrawl across them, black and white photographs with the corners folded down, the faded stubs of movie tickets, a tissue paper corsage...her grandmother’s face was almost exactly the same as it gazed up from the box in its black and white frame. Molly sifted her hand through the pile of things, dredging up more photographs and letters. 

“Gram, how much is in here?” Molly asked, fingering a photograph before placing it back in the box to pick up a letter.

“Oh, about six years worth of memories, I suppose,” Bridget replied. She made no effort to take the box from Molly, choosing instead to watch her from across the table as she continued to pick through the different mementos that Bridget had stashed away. “I’d say maybe from 1939 to, oh, I don’t know...1945?”

“Jeez,” Molly muttered as she picked up a photograph. “That’s quite the commitment.”

“It’s not a commitment when you’re in love.”

At that, Molly looked up from the photograph in her hand. “Love?”

“Yes, love. And no, I’m not talking about your grandfather.”

Molly looked back down at the photograph in her hand. Displayed on the 4x3 piece of paper was her grandmother, the glowing example of a young girl in love. She had her hair swept back on one side, the rest of it cascading over her left shoulder. The blondeness of it shone against the dark material of a smart looking jacket, and a felt, wide-brimmed hat with a feather in the ribbon encircling it sat atop her head. Across her face was an unabashed grin as she clung to the arm of an incredibly handsome man. He was tall--much taller than her grandmother--with a lanky easiness about him. On his head was a fedora, and he was wearing an overcoat. His left hand was in the pocket of the overcoat, and the other arm was around Bridget’s trim waist. He wasn’t grinning like her grandmother was, but he had a high-cheeked smile on his face, the shadow of his dimples too prominent to ignore. Even with the fedora blocking some of his face, Molly could see that he was incredibly handsome, with honest eyes and a sharp jawline.

Slowly, Molly turned the photo around to face Bridget. “Any chance this is who you’re talking about?” Immediate recognition crossed Bridget’s face, betraying any semblance of stoicism she had been hiding behind. Molly watched as her grandmother’s face softened in a way she had never seen before--her eyes shone as the wrinkles at the corners became more prominent. 

“Yes, that’s him,” Bridget said in a hoarse whisper. “That’s Mark.”

* * *

 

** 1939 : Grafton Underwood **

 

It was late August when Bridget’s mother decided to have her annual outdoor tea. All of the ladies in Grafton Underwood would dress up in their finest summer dresses and wear their loveliest hats while their husbands would don lightweight suits and pin a flower in their buttonhole, just to have tea and cucumber sandwiches in Pamela Jones’s backyard. 

Despite the occasional eye roll Bridget would give her mother about the event, she secretly was looking forward to it this year. All years prior, Bridget had been “too young” to properly enjoy the pomp and circumstance of the annual tea. An hour into it, she usually found herself bored or ignored, so she would go back into the house and read a book while her parents and their friends socialized and laughed outside.

This year was different. Working in the town’s dress shop, Bridget was looking forward to seeing her clients looking their best at her mother’s tea, all thanks to her impeccable eye. She also reveled in the chance to pick the nicest dress from the shop to wear, and this year was going to be a showstopper. Her 18th birthday had passed that March, leaving her feeling more like a woman than ever before, and she made it a point to pick the loveliest dress from the shop. It was a navy dress that hit her about mid-calf, and the sleeves of it were sheer with a white cuff. A matching collar framed her decolletage, and around her waist was a baby pink ribbon with a pink rosette settled right in the middle. She decided on a pair of white, high-heeled sandals and a matching wide-brimmed, white straw hat that had several pink flowers pinned to the side, just above the brim.

When Bridget walked into the party, she could feel several pairs of eyes turn towards her. She wasn’t used to that kind of immediate attention--she knew she was an attractive girl, as far as village girls went, but she never considered herself a head-turner. She thanked her lucky stars that she was wearing her white cotton gloves, because her palms immediately began to sweat at the attention. She gave a few familiar faces a nod and a smile as she floated through the crowd, internally cringing at how uncomfortable and awkward she felt. 

After what felt like an eternity, Bridget saw her father across the lawn, talking to another man. Sighing audibly, Bridget beelined towards her father. Once next to him, she looped her gloved hand through his slack arm and looked up at him.

“You have  _ no _ idea how happy I am to see you,” Bridget said to her father, giving him a smile that wrinkled her nose.

“And why is that, poppet?” he asked. Sweat glistened on his forehead as the August sun beat down on them. 

“I barely know anyone here,” Bridget continued, looking back at the crowd over her shoulder. “And I feel like they’re all staring at me.” As she said this, she could feel the hair on the back of her neck stand up. It was clearly evident that she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Slowly, she turned back around and came face-to-face with the loveliest pair of brown eyes she had ever seen. They were trained on her with unwavering resilience, and Bridget felt the heat rise in her face.

“Hello,” the owner of the eyes said.

“Hello,” Bridget returned, searching his face. It was the man her father had been speaking to before she approached him. He was younger than most of the guests at the party, and by far the most handsome man she had ever seen. He was very tall--taller than six feet, she would guess--and he held his long, lanky limbs with a certain ease that made him almost intimidating. He was bareheaded, and Bridget couldn’t help admiring the shining mass of brown curls that sat atop his head. His jawline was made up of strong, straight lines, and despite his lips staying in an aloof, straight line, his eyes sparkled with the hint of a smile. Bridget allowed her eyes to travel downward, and she couldn’t help noticing that he was impeccably dressed--he had on a white button-down with a green tie nestled underneath a camel colored sports coat that made the color of his eyes look like amber honey. Below, he had on white slacks with a pair of camel colored brogues.

The man extended his hand out to her. “My name is Mark. Mark Darcy,” he said. 

Hesitantly, Bridget took his hand, and he gave it a small shake. His hand was enormous compared to hers, practically engulfing her glove. “I’m Bridget,” she replied, keeping her eyes locked on his.

“Very nice to meet you. I assume you’re Mr. Jones’s daughter?” Mark continued, gesturing to her father whom she was still clinging to.

“Who?” Bridget said in a slightly glazed tone. She couldn’t stop staring at Mark’s face, admiring the way his eyes shone between the brackets of laugh lines (despite the lack of a smile) and the way the muscles in his jawline flexed as he stared at her.

“The man you’re hanging off of,” Mark continued.

Blinking, Bridget gave her head a quick shake and looked up towards her father. “Oh. Yes, Mr. Jones. He’s my father. Very...very astute observation,” she said lamely, letting her arm drop away from her father’s. 

At this, Mark smiled, and Bridget swore she could hear angels’ trumpets blaring. His whole face opened as he smiled, and the laugh lines she had been admiring seconds before were now more prominent than ever, along with the hollow divots of his dimples. Bridget let out a guffaw that was far from ladylike, blushing before she could suppress it. She cleared her throat and lowered her head, trying to shield her embarrassment behind her hat.

Suddenly, her father’s voice sounded from beside her as he said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find my wife. Mark, please thank your parents for me for bringing you this year. I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation. Good luck in your last year at Cambridge.” With that, her father turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Mark and Bridget to stand by themselves near the rose bushes. 

Awkwardly, Bridget inspected her shoes, still unable to lift her face to meet Mark’s gaze. 

“Your father’s quite lovely,” Mark said, leaving Bridget no other option than to look up.

“Oh, yes. I’d have to agree. He’s much more tolerable than my mother.”

Mark chuckled at this admission, the gravel in his voice echoing in the sound. “That’s quite harsh, considering,” he said, a mischievous glint sparkling in his eye.

Bridget blushed once more, mentally scolding herself for her lack of decorum. “I don’t know if I would call it  _ harsh. _ Have you met my mother? She can be quite...interesting.”

Mark shook his head. “I can’t say that I’ve met her more than in passing. I know that she’s quite good friends with my mother, but I’m not around much to have made more than her acquaintance.”

Grateful for the chance to change subjects, Bridget said, “Yes, I suppose you’re not around much, being at Cambridge. Did I hear my father correctly in that you’re starting your last year?”

Mark nodded, then took a sip of his drink. “I am. I’m hoping that this time next year I’ll be starting my pupillage at the Inns of Court.”

“Are you studying law?”

“Very astute observation,” he said, the mischievous glimmer winking at her from the honey brown of his eyes. “What occupies your time?”

“I work at Mrs. Smith’s dress shop in town. I’m a sales clerk and do some of the alterations.”

At this, Mark blatantly gave her outfit the once-over. A smirk played on his lips as he allowed his eyes to rove over her. “I suppose I should have realized that. You look quite lovely in that dress.” As if she didn’t want to die on the spot already, Bridget could feel the fire lick up underneath her collar as she blushed at Mark’s compliment. “Really, if you think about it, it makes a lot of sense that you turned heads when you walked into the party.” 

“What makes you say that?” Bridget said, wrapping an arm around her own waist and laying the other hand on her collarbone. She suddenly felt the urge to cover herself. Mark was not making her uncomfortable, necessarily, but the level of attention she was garnering was far more than she was used to. It also didn’t help that Mark was  _ gorgeous.  _

All hints of amusement now left Mark’s face and were replaced with sheer panic. The crow’s feet that had hinted at amusement earlier smoothed out, only to be replaced by a deeply furrowed brow. “I-I’m sorry if you feel like I...implied something,” he said awkwardly. 

It was now Bridget’s turn to panic. “I don’t feel that at all,” she said. Her words seemed to fall flat as she said them, for they did nothing to even out the lines of concern on Mark’s face. “I just...I suppose I don’t understand what makes you think that I warrant any  _ attention.” _

Clearing his throat, Mark awkwardly shoved his hand into his pants pocket as he gave her an inquisitive stare. “You’re joking with me,” he said.

“Why would I joke about something like that?” Bridget shot back, feeling an inkling of annoyance.

“You’re quite beautiful, Bridget. Surely you know that.”

Gobsmacked, Bridget pulled back a little to really look at Mark’s face. No traces of amusement or jest seemed to be crossing his features. In all frankness, the only thing that Bridget could really see was sincerity in his eyes. 

“Do you actually mean that?” she blurted before she could stop herself.

“Now I think you’re simply fishing for compliments.”

Blushing, Bridget took a steadying breath. “Thank you,” she murmured. 

Mark waited a beat before saying, “I apologize.”

“For what?”

“For being rude. I’ve clearly gotten off to an incredibly awkward start, and I feel the only way that I can dig myself out of this hole is to apologize before I dig myself any deeper.”

Bridget allowed a tiny smile to play on her lips as she scanned Mark’s face. The sincerity she had seen before was still etched into his demeanor. He probably had one of the most honest faces she had ever seen.  _ He’ll make a wonderful lawyer,  _ she thought to herself. 

“Apology accepted,” she said.

Mark’s furrowed brow finally smoothed out, and a true smile cut across his face. Bridget couldn’t help comparing him to Helios, all shimmering curls and sun sparked skin, his entire face lit up like the sun. 

“I’m not normally this forward, but I feel like that’s the only way to go about dealing with you,” Mark said, the traces of his smile still lingering on his face. “Can I be so bold as to ask you out on a date?”

Bridget tried desperately to choke down the surprise she felt as his question. Slowly, she nodded her head yes and said, “Not the sweetest proposal, but I think that would be quite nice.”

Confusion flashed on Mark’s face before quickly disappearing. “You’re joking with me again.”

Bridget now smiled at him and said, “I actually wasn’t joking that time, but it still doesn’t take away from how flattered I am that you’d ask me.” 

Mark exasperatedly scrubbed a hand down his face, then shook his head. “Fair enough,” he conceded. “I’m only home for a few more weeks, so why don’t we get together this Saturday coming up. I believe they’re having a fair in town, celebrating the end of summer or some malarky like that. Would you like that?”

Bridget smiled and nodded. “Malarky aside, I think it’d be nice.” 

“I’ll pick you up at 5:00?”

“That sounds perfect.”

Mark smiled at her again, this time just a small upturn of his lips that let Bridget know he was pleased. “Sadly I must get going, but I’m looking forward to seeing you Saturday.” He gave her a little tilt of his head, slightly bowing forward.

“I’m looking forward to it, too. It was nice meeting you, Mark.”

“You too, Bridget.”

With that, Mark put his free hand in his pants pocket again and walked away from Bridget. Bridget noticed, though, that he didn’t completely get away without one last glance over his shoulder at her. She gave him a demure wave, which caused him to blush up around his ears at being caught. Unable to help herself, Bridget huffed out a laugh. Mark turned back around and kept walking until he disappeared around the hedgerow, and it was then that Bridget realized the jackrabbit pace her heart was keeping. 

It seemed like the upcoming week was going to hold quite a few surprises. Unfortunately, some were going to be worse than others, but neither of them would know it until later.


	2. September 1939

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented and left kudos! This fic has definitely been intimidating and challenging, since it's my first real chapter fic, and knowing that it's being well received is wonderful. Hopefully it lives up to everyone's expectations (including my own :))

**2001 : London**

Molly searched her grandmother’s face as her story came to a close. She was practically glowing, her face emanating joy at the memory. Somewhere in the middle of her story, she had acquired the photo from Molly and really hadn’t taken her eyes off of it since. It wasn’t lost on her granddaughter how she kept running a thumb over the worn edges, almost as if she was caressing the man in the picture, willing him to be real.

“So...what was he like?” Molly said. 

“Hmmm?” Bridget hummed, finally looking up from the photograph to meet her granddaughter’s gaze.

“You can’t stop there! I’m on tenterhooks! What was he like, this Mark Darcy?”

Bridget now smiled, her eyes going back down to the picture. “He was wonderful.”

“Gram, seriously. That’s all you’re going to give me? I need more details! How did your first date go? Was he painfully polite and a total gentleman?” Molly reached between them to gently snatch the photo from her grandmother, turning it around to get a better look at the man in the picture. “He looks like he’d be a total gentleman. Nothing like Gramps.”

At this, Bridget laughed. “Your grandfather was a gentleman in his own way. But you’re right...he was nothing like Gramps.”

“Soooo, tell me about him. I need to know.”

“I told you that he was wonderful, and I know that won’t possibly whet your salacious curiosity, but that’s truly what he was. Wonderful. He was stoic and righteous, but he had a wicked sense of humor when he allowed his guard to fall. That was my favorite, when he would make snarky comments under his breath, or make eye contact with me across a room and roll his eyes. Sometimes I felt like he was only saving those moments for me. Oh, and I’d be remiss to forget how whip-smart he was. I would even venture to say that he was one of the most brilliant minds Britain has ever produced.”

“That’s a pretty lofty title to hold, Gram.”

“Now, Molly, would I be one to exaggerate?” At this, Bridget gave her a cheeky wink. Molly laughed and shook her head. 

“So did you see all of those things about him from the start?”

“Oh, for God’s sake no. Honestly, I hated him a bit on our first date. He came across as cold and pompous, and what he was taking as banter, I was taking as arguing. It really was a complete mess, if I’m to be honest.”

“Well, what happened?”   
  


* * *

 

**September 3, 1939 : Grafton Underwood**

As promised, Mark showed up at Bridget’s house at 5:00, on the dot. Of course, Bridget wasn’t ready on time, and Mark awkwardly stood in her parents’ foyer for what felt like an eternity while she put the finishing touches on her outfit. She descended the staircase with haste, practically huffing by the time she reached the landing. Her breath left her altogether, though, when she saw Mark standing there.

He was far less dressed up than he had been at her mother’s tea, but he was no less handsome. He had chosen to wear a pair of navy pants with a white and navy striped short-sleeve button-down. The brown oxfords on his feet had a high shine, and the mop of curls on top of his head was pomaded off of his forehead. Bridget couldn’t help feeling a slight twinge of sadness at not seeing his hair in all of its fluffy gloriousness, but she kept it to herself.

When she reached the landing, something passed over Mark’s face as he looked at her. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it elicited a crimson flush up her neck when she noticed his gaze on her. The strong line of his jaw was flexing with what Bridget assumed was annoyance--punctuality was never her strong suit, and she had become quite accustomed to other people’s frustration at her tardiness. Bridget allowed her eyes to flicker over to her father, who had been standing next to Mark. He looked just as exasperated as Mark did.

“Hello,” Mark said, casually placing his hands in his pockets. “Nice of you to show up.” 

If it weren’t for Bridget immediately taking offense to Mark’s quip, she would have noticed the small glint of amusement in his eye. On the contrary, she felt her temper flare as she challenged his gaze. “I apologize for my being late,” she said icily. “I wanted to look nice for our date.”

At this, Bridget’s father interjected. “And look nice you very well do. I think you’ve kept this poor young man waiting long enough, though, Bridget. You’d best be on your way.” At this, he turned to Mark and offered his hand. “No later than ten o’clock, my boy. Good luck...hopefully she can behave herself.” With that, he winked at Mark, and Bridget couldn’t help noticing the blush creeping up Mark’s neck. 

“Yes sir. Thank you very much for allowing me to take her out.” Bridget silently noted that Mark made no comment about her behavior, and for that she secretly thanked him. She  _ wouldn’t _ , however, thank him outright--she was still stung from his sarcastic greeting, and planned on making him work for her attention.

Bridget’s father crossed the foyer, planted a small peck on her cheek, and gave her hand a squeeze. “No later than ten, Bridget,” he reiterated, then took a step back as he smiled at her.

“Yes, Father,” she said. With that, she stepped down off of the last step and towards the front door. She felt Mark’s presence follow up behind her, and he reached around her to get the door. Demurely, she glanced at him over her shoulder then crossed the threshold, muttering a clipped, “Thank you,” as she passed by him.

Once outside, Mark fell into an easy stride next to her as she walked down the path from her front door to the street. Wavering through the air was the sound of carnival rides and laughter coming from the direction of town. It was a humid night for early September--the clouds hung low in the sky, fat and ominous looking, creating a mountainous horizon that shifted and changed as the wind blew. The sun was starting its slow descent in the west, and the moon was already visible in the east. It was an almost full disc, like a eucharist wafer that someone misplaced. Bridget took a deep breath of the humid air, and she could feel Mark’s gaze on her.

“Looks like rain,” he said.

Bridget glanced towards him, then resolutely faced back forward. “Feels like it, too,” she said. The sounds of the carnival were getting louder as they got closer to the town square, and Bridget was thankful that the walk was so short. If the rest of the night were to be this awkward and formal, she’d be home far sooner than her ten o’clock curfew. 

The pair walked the rest of the way in silence, unsure what to talk about. Before long, they could see the top of the carnival booths, their candy-striped rooftops peeking up above the treeline. As they approached the festivities, Bridget felt Mark’s hand in the small of her back as he guided her towards the first booth. His touch was featherlight, barely even a whisper above the fabric of her dress, but it completely took her breath away and made her blush. As if he could sense her discomfort, the lingering touch disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. When Bridget looked to him, she could see him clearing his throat, a fist resolutely held up to his mouth. She couldn’t help admiring the handsome features of his face, even if she was still sore with him.

“Why did you pomade your hair tonight?” Bridget blurted out. It had bothered her from the second she saw him, and the awkwardness of the situation pushed her to just simply say the first thing that came to mind. Mark looked at her in bewilderment, the furrow she had seen at her mother’s tea once again appearing on his brow. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, clearly confused by the bluntness of her question.

“I don’t understand why you slicked it back like that...it looks quite nice when it isn’t plastered to your head.”

“Are you...are you insinuating that it doesn’t look good when it  _ is _ plastered to my head?” The look of befuddlement hadn’t left his face, and Bridget felt the heat rising in her cheeks.

Turning towards the first booth, Bridget picked up a paper flower that was for sale. “I mean, it doesn’t look  _ awful. _ I just prefer it  _ au naturale _ . It suits you.” Gently, she fingered the paper rose in her hand, turning it over to inspect it with far more attention than she normally would have. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Mark--she could feel the confusion practically emanating off of him. The silence was unbearable. 

Finally, he said, “I suppose I could ask you why you decided to wear that dress, but I won’t.” 

At that, Bridget’s eyes snapped up to look at his face. “Is there something wrong with my dress?” she huffed, a look of complete disbelief rearranging her features. “I quite like it.”

“I do, too,” he murmured, a small smile playing on his lips. Bridget felt her face soften. Just as she thought that maybe Mark  _ wasn’t _ as awkward and haughty as she had initially concluded, he straightened up and wiped his hands down the front of his slacks. Jamming them into his pockets, he continued, “I was just proving a point.”

Bridget pulled back and narrowed her eyes. “And what point is that?”

“That you shouldn’t just say whatever comes to mind without thinking.”

“What makes you assume I didn’t think before speaking?” Bridget could now feel her temper coming back. No one had ever gotten under her skin the way this tall, gangly, curly-haired man had, and she didn’t know how to handle it. Part of her was infuriated at his bluntness, at the way he didn’t shower her with compliments but rather chose to verbally spar with her at any chance he got. The other part of her, though, was drawn to his honesty. Granted, his comments were never out of context the way hers tended to be, but she hadn’t met someone who was just as honest as she was, even if they both insulted each other in the long run.

“There was really no reason to bring it up,” Mark continued, picking his own paper flower off of the table in front of them. He had chosen a gardenia made out of cream card stock. The edges of the petals were curled elegantly, and a large green leaf framed the curvature of the flower itself. He turned it over in his hands, running the pad of his thumb over the petals’ edges. “Unless, of course, you had a reason to.”

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” she snapped, her eyes locked onto his. 

Surprisingly, Mark just smiled at her. Bridget’s breath caught in her throat as he reached out towards her, the flower in his hand. Gently, he placed it behind her left ear, nestled where the comb was that she had used to sweep her hair off of her face. He made no move to linger or caress her cheek, simply dropping his arm back down to his side as he looked at her. “You didn’t offend me,” he said. “You’re entitled to your opinion. To be quite frank, I only pomaded it because I was taking you out. I figured I’d make myself look presentable, especially since you clearly take such great pains with your appearance.”

Once again, Bridget didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered. She decided to bite her tongue, waiting for Mark to continue.

“Tonight is a perfect example,” he said, gesturing with his head towards her dress. She had chosen a yellow poplin dress with a white collar to match her shoes. Her hair, which was curled then brushed out in soft waves, was pulled off of her face with two tortoiseshell combs. When she had chose her outfit, she knew she wanted to look nice, but not like she was trying too hard. Mark’s comment on her outfit left her feeling like maybe she had missed her mark, like she was trying too hard or not hard enough.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks as she self-consciously smoothed the front of her dress down. 

Mark was now rummaging in his wallet for a bill, which he handed to the booth owner before saying, “I think you look quite lovely, even if it made you late.” He thanked the booth owner before looking back to Bridget. “I think the flower is the perfect touch.”

Bridget was still reeling from the backhanded compliment that seemed to be Mark’s specialty. She slowly raised a hand to the paper gardenia that he had placed in her hair as she watched him turn on his heel, heading towards the center of the carnival. She huffed indignantly before tearing off after him, her hands involuntarily balled into fists. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she hissed. Taken aback, Mark looked towards her.

“You ask that quite a bit.”

“Well, you’re infuriating!” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. “You make these wonderful compliments, then immediately turn around and tack on an insult. I don’t know whether to thank you or wallop you!” 

Mark truly looked confused now as he looked at her. She could feel the heat in her face and there was a threat of tears as a lump made itself known in her throat.  
  
“Bridget…” he began.

“No! Unless it’s an apology, I don’t want to hear it!”

“Bridget, if you’d just let me talk!” Mark’s voice had gotten surprisingly loud, which immediately shut Bridget up. He let out an exasperated sigh as he jammed his hands into his pockets again. “I can’t believe I’m mucking this up already,” he muttered to himself, looking up towards the treetops that they were now under. 

“Mucking what up?” Bridget snapped as she crossed her arms across her front.

“This,” Mark said, gesturing between them. “This date. Any chance of ever taking you out again” He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. When he opened his eyes again, he allowed his gaze to fall on her face. “Let’s grab something to eat,” he continued. 

Raising her chin, Bridget said, “Fine. But I choose.” 

Mark huffed a laugh at her, his face finally breaking from its cloudy disposition as a smile spread across it. He held an arm out at his side and said, “Lead the way.” Bridget allowed her arms to drop to her side, but kept her chin raised as she brushed past him. She could still hearing him chuckling as he followed in her wake.

After passing by a few booths, Bridget settled in front of a booth selling pasties. She placed her order, and Mark followed suit, paying for their food as Bridget stood off to the side. They stood in awkward silence as they watched the vendor prepare their food, placing the pasties into two paper containers before handing them both to Mark. Thanking the vendor, Mark turned towards Bridget and handed hers to her. He began walking to a bench nearby, and Bridget followed suit.

Mark sat on one end of the bench, crossing his legs at the knee before tucking into the pasties. Bridget sat on the opposite end of the bench, chancing a glance at his profile before taking a bite out of her own food. The pasty was warm and satisfying, and Bridget could feel herself becoming a bit more congenial with each bite she took. By the time they both were finished, neither had spoken a word but the air between them was far less tense.

Feeling in better spirits, Bridget looked towards Mark and said, “Thank you for those.” 

Mark smiled and said, “My pleasure. I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

There was a beat of silence before Bridget continued. “So tell me. Do you really like my dress, or were you being sarcastic?”

“I really like your dress,” Mark said. “I’d never joke about a compliment.”

“Then why did you mention me being late?”

“I thought you’d know  _ that _ was a joke, but apparently I was mistaken.”

Bridget chewed on her bottom lip in thought. She felt a bit embarrassed at her presumptions about Mark. She could now see that she had projected her own self-consciousness onto his actions and she wanted to cringe at her own behavior.

“I’m sorry for being so...argumentative,” Bridget said lamely, choosing not to look at Mark, but rather pick at a thread on her dress. “I thought you were being facetious, and I got defensive.”

Mark hummed low in his throat, and Bridget looked up at him. “I could see why you thought that,” he said. They fell back into a contemplative silence. Bridget fidgeted with the bangle on her wrist while Mark looked out at the square in front of them. The clouds had started to roll in, blocking out huge chunks of phoenix-hued sky while the humidity hung heavy in the air. Across the square was a band. In front of the bandstand were pairs of dancers, all swaying and swinging to what sounded like “Little Brown Jug”. Bridget now watched them, unaware that Mark’s attention was on her.

“Do you like to dance?” he asked, turning his gaze back towards the dancers.

“I do,” she replied. 

“Would you like to?”

Bridget looked over at him. Seriousness was written across his face, no hint of a joke visible. “I would,” she said, giving him her first smile of the night. Relief flooded his features as he stood. He offered his hand to her, and Bridget took it. She still reveled in the breadth of its size against her own palm--it was strong and warm against her skin, and she risked giving the back of his hand a quick brush of her thumb. Mark looked down at her and smiled.

He led her across the square to where the band was transitioning songs. From “Little Brown Jug” they segwayed into “Moonlight Serenade”, and Mark turned his body towards hers. He towered over her, especially now that she was in her flat sandals. Her eyes were parallel with his chest, and she had to tilt her chin up to look him in the eye. He was softly looking down at her, the smallest of smiles crossing his lips. “May I?” he asked. Bridget nodded as she stepped towards him. Gently, Mark placed his hand on her hip, grabbing her other hand in his own. Bridget allowed her free hand to snake up his chest before settling on his shoulder. 

The echo of the band warbled across the cobblestones as Mark tightened his grip on Bridget’s waist. The couples around them were completely ensconced in each other, not that Bridget noticed. She was too wrapped up in the feeling of being in Mark’s arms. Despite all of the misunderstandings that the night had held, she couldn’t deny the secure feeling that Mark gave her as his body swayed against hers. She could smell the aftershave that he was wearing, feel the percussive beat of his heart through the thin fabric of their clothes. In a moment of daring, Bridget allowed her cheek to rest on his chest, the rhythmic  _ thump thump _ now pressing a steady beat against her skin. 

“I was afraid you’d say no,” she heard above her.

Pulling back, Bridget looked up towards Mark, a quizzical look across her brow. “Say no to what?”

“Dancing with me. I’m glad you didn’t.” His voice was a low, gravelly grate, the breath of his words ghosting across her hair. The gold-flecked amber of his eyes were now drunkenly hazed as they looked down at her, and for the second time that night Bridget felt the breath leave her lungs. 

“I’m glad, too,” she whispered. 

Mark allowed his eyes to rove over her features before settling on her lips. “I don’t know what it is about you, Bridget, but you make me become far more forward than I normally am.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“Kissing you.”

“Oh.”

“May I?”

Bridget paused in her response, her eyes boring into Mark’s as he hungrily looked at her. She couldn’t deny her attraction to him--he had left her breathless the first second she saw him, and despite the bluntness with which he spoke, she admired his honesty and felt comfortable with her own bumbling admissions because of it. Tilting her head to the side, she gave him a smirk. 

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt...as long as you’re a gentleman about it.”

Mark grinned at her. “You’ve made it a point to ensure my manners this entire night, so I wouldn’t dream of anything less.” With that, he started to lean down towards her mouth. Bridget tilted her chin up towards him, allowing her eyes to roll back in her head as her lids closed.

There was the slightest brush of lips against hers when a crack of lightning ripped across the sky and the clouds that had been ominously following them the entire night decided to open up. Mark quickly pulled back from her, muttering a distinguishable, “Shit,” as the rain poured down on them. He looked down at Bridget with questioning eyes as the couples around them ran for shelter. The rain had already started to soak through their clothes, and Mark’s pomaded hair was slowly coming undone as the water ran in rivulets down his face. He looked like a bewildered, drowned cat as he blinked through the drops.

Bridget let out a loud bark of laughter, unable to stop herself. Still in Mark’s arms, she burrowed her face into his chest as she continued to laugh hysterically. She felt his embrace around her tighten, and soon the hammering of his heart was drowned out by his own laughter. Bridget pulled back and looked up at his face. His features had become lines and creases as his entire face lit up. 

Caught in the moment, Bridget lifted her hand to trace a thumb against his cheek, and Mark lifted his own hand to catch hers before placing a kiss against her palm. They were the last two standing in the square, the rain coming down in buckets around them. Without even thinking about it, Bridget leaned up on her tiptoes and covered Mark’s mouth with her own. What little laughter was left in Mark’s chest quickly snuffed out as he kissed her back. Bridget felt the electricity from Mark’s mouth against hers spark against her lips, and she melted into his embrace. 

The moment felt simultaneously like an eternity and not long enough. Mark pulled back to look down at her, his hair now a mess of wet curls that dripped down onto her cheeks and eyelashes. “You look a mess,” he said with a laugh.

Feigning indignance, Bridget haughtily raised her eyebrows and said, “You should see yourself.”

Mark laughed and took her once more in his arms. “I suppose we should get out of this rain,” he said into her hair. It had already started to peter off, the deluge now more of a sprinkle. Bridget nodded into his chest. Mark took her hand and led her from the square to where a pile of dry newspapers sat beneath the bench they had been sitting on. He took two of them, handing one to her. “Not much of an umbrella, but it’ll have to do for now,” he said with a smile. Bridget smiled back and took it from his hands. 

They started to trek out towards Bridget’s house, both of them holding their respective newspaper over their heads. Bridget chanced a glance in his direction and noticed that the hair that had been plastered to his forehead was now drying into the glorious crown of curls that she had found herself smitten with. She smirked.

“Thank goodness…” she said vaguely.

Mark looked at her, confusion on his features. “For what?”

“That rain.”

“Oh, really. And why is that?”

“Because your curls are back.”

Mark raised a hand to his head, unaware of the self-conscious look that was now on his face. He ran his hand through his hair, fluffing it up. Bridget’s smirk was now a full-on grin. 

“You really like them that much,” he mumbled.

“I do.”

“Fine. Then I’ll wear them all haphazardly like this on our next date.”

Bridget, not wanting to seem over zealous, simply hummed low in her throat before saying, “Our next date, hmm?”

“I know the beginning of this date wasn’t exactly as planned, but I think we ended on a high note,” he replied. She could tell he was trying to remain composed, but she sensed a small inkling of hopefulness underneath his cool demeanor. “Would you agree?”

Shrugging, Bridget said, “You could say that.” They were now out front of Bridget’s house, and the rain had altogether stopped. The trees in her front yard dripped heavily into the grass as the lamp from the porch now threw streams of light into the impending darkness. The droplets of water sparkled in the light, and the silence was now deafening compared to the sounds of the carnival. 

Bridget had her back pressed up against the gate to her parents’ walkway, the newspaper that she had been using as an umbrella discarded beside her. Mark was now facing her, his own newspaper still damply hanging from his hand. He took a hesitant step towards her before dropping the newspaper onto the ground. He was now just a breath’s distance away from her, the size of him pressing her up against the gate as he reached out towards her face.

Bracing herself for the inevitable brush of his fingers against her cheek, Bridget’s breath hitched in her chest. Instead of touching her, though, Mark reached out and pulled the now sopping wet gardenia from her hair. It was barely recognizable from the beautiful, delicate flower that he had placed there only hours before, and Bridget couldn’t help the crestfallen look that crossed her face. 

“Oh, Mark, I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

“Don’t be,” he replied, letting the mushy pieces of paper fall from his fingertips onto the sidewalk. “It just gives me a reason to take you out again...buy you another one.”

At this declaration, Mark took a step closer to Bridget and encircled her waist with his arm. Bridget looked up at him, the butterflies in her stomach now threatening to escape. Mark was looking down at her, the light from the porch lamp glistening in his eyes. Bending down, he whispered in her ear, “May I?” 

“Stop asking my permission and just kiss me.” 

Without further hesitation, Mark pulled Bridget into him by her waist, his other hand coming up to cup her jawline as he claimed her mouth with his own. Bridget felt herself go slack limbed against him as she succumbed to the kiss. Her arms involuntarily rose on their own, coming up to snake their way around his neck and nestle into the short hairs at the base of his neck. Her left hand traveled up through his hair until it lay nestled in the mass of curls that she had been dying to touch from the second she saw them. She could feel Mark smiling against her mouth as he pulled her in even closer to him. 

“You’re something else,” he murmured into her neck as he nuzzled against the soft skin there. 

Bridget laughed, enjoying the attention he was lavishing on her. Mark continued to place soft, tantalizing kisses against his neck, along her jawline, back to her lips where he lingered, allowing himself the pleasure of feeling her kiss him back. 

Suddenly, the front door opened behind them, and Bridget practically pushed Mark away from her. 

“Bridget?” Her mother’s voice echoed across the front yard. “Bridget, is that you?” She sounded upset, a slight warble detectable in her voice.

Giving Mark’s hand a reassuring squeeze, Bridget replied, “Yes, Mother, it’s me. Mark and I just got back from the carnival.” She waited a beat before saying, “Is everything alright?”

“Oh, Bridget. Terrible news. Absolutely terrible.”

Mark and Bridget both perked up at her words, and Bridget made her way through the front gate with Mark at her heels. She could see her mother in the doorway, wrapped in her housecoat and her face covered in cold cream. Bridget couldn’t believe she would allow herself to be seen by Mark in this state, but a look of absolute fear and sadness was on her face.

“Mother, what’s wrong?” Bridget said, rushing up to the front door.

Taking Bridget’s arm in her hand, her mother responded, “It just came across the radio. We’ve declared war on Germany. The Nazis...they invaded Poland, and we’ve declared war on them.” She raised a quivering hand to her mouth before looking at Mark and saying, “It’s only a matter of time before they send our boys to war.”

In that instant, Bridget felt the bottom of her stomach fall out. 

 


	3. April 1940

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to everyone who's commented or left kudos! I love to hear what you guys think, especially with a fic of this magnitude, so please, don't hesitate to comment! You never know--what you say may end up nudging the story in a certain direction :)

**2001 : London**

Molly looked at her grandmother across the table, a lump somehow finding its way into her throat. She had never heard her grandmother speak so candidly about someone, with so much affection and detail. It was something to witness, like watching floodgates opening and then falling victim to a monsoon of memories that had been building for decades.

“So, did he end up buying you another flower?” Molly asked, willing herself to push her grandmother forward with her stories. Now that she had started, Molly didn’t want her to stop.

“Of course he did,” Bridget replied, pulling the box of mementos to her. She picked up the faded paper corsage Molly had initially pushed aside and held it out to her granddaughter. “Always true to his word,” she said wistfully, a small smile playing on her lips. “That was probably one of his greatest qualities and biggest downfalls...he kept a promise, no matter who it was to.”

Molly took the corsage from her grandmother and turned it over in her hands. The silk ribbon that hung from the back of the paper flower still had the faintest scent of Chanel No. 5 lingering on it...her grandmother still wore the heady, floral scent, and Molly now wondered if it was a way to remember her time with Mark. Probably not intentionally, but it was a detail not to be overlooked.

“So did you two become a couple after that date?”

“We did.”

Molly dragged the box back to her side of the table, and started to pick through the pieces of paper and photographs that were stacked inside. She settled on a photo of Mark and Bridget in what appeared to be an apple grove. They were standing in between two lines of trees--Bridget had a large, straw sunhat on her head, an unabashed grin across her face as one hand held the hat on her head. Mark was next to her, his arm around her waist, but instead of looking at the camera the way Bridget was, he was looking at her. On his face was a look of complete adoration. Molly flipped the photo over to find  _ April, 1940 _ scrawled across the back in her grandmother’s distinct handwriting.

“What’s this from?” she asked, passing the photo to Bridget.

Taking it from Molly’s hand, Bridget looked at it through the line of her bifocal. Slowly, Molly watched as recognition crossed her grandmother’s features. Her eyes softened as a sad smile crossed her lips. 

“We were on a picnic,” she finally said. “We snuck into this apple grove when Mark was home from Cambridge on spring holiday.” Bridget paused as she chewed on her bottom lip. “I’d say we had been dating long distance for about eight months at this point...writing letters to each other, stealing weekends when we could. I remember soaking up all of our time together when he would come home on these long breaks. He’d take me out dancing, or we’d ride bikes through town. A lot of times my mother would cook dinner and invite him over.” Looking up, Bridget met her granddaughter’s gaze with a twinkle in her eye. “He had surprised me with this picnic. Practically blindfolded me! Mark was a very straightlaced person, always by the books. I, as you know, am  _ not _ that straightlaced. I like to have fun and get in trouble.” With that, she winked. “We didn’t know the owners of this orchard from Adam, but Mark thought it would be fun to sneak onto the property and have a proper picnic. I swear, Molly, I’d never been so flabbergasted in my life. To see him doing something so scandalous was, well,  _ scandalous. _ I teased him about it for weeks afterwards.”

Molly huffed a laugh. “Not only was he trespassing, but he brought a camera with him? Kept photographic evidence? Talk about a rebel!”

Bridget laughed at that, her eyes glittering at the memory. “He had gotten that camera for Christmas, and every chance he got he was taking photos of me. They’re not in that box because I thought it was vain to keep so many photos of myself, but the ones he was able to shoot of us together...well, they’re special.” She grabbed the photo from Molly once more. “Yes, I remember this day quite well.”

“Tell me about it, Gram.”

 

* * *

 

**April, 1940 : Grafton Underwood**

The sky that day had been the deepest blue. Huge, white clouds puffed along in the cerulean expanse, and a gentle breeze rolled through the orchard. It wasn’t too warm out, but the sun was shining with an optimism that many hadn’t felt in months. 

Truly, it was the perfect day to be kidnapped by one’s boyfriend.

Mark had shown up at Bridget’s house unannounced, picnic basket in tow and an impish grin on his face. When prompted where they were headed, Mark simply held his hands up on either side of him in mock surrender. On more than one occasion, Bridget had let out an exasperated huff, but once she was in the front seat of his parents’ sedan with the breeze rolling through the open window, she didn’t care what the plans were. She had slid across the large bench seat to curl into Mark’s side, soaking in the feeling of his arm around her shoulder and the warmth of the sun warming her ankles through the window. 

When Mark had pulled over to the side of the road next to the apple orchard, Bridget had given him a look, her eyebrow cocked at him in a questioning manner. 

“What are we doing here?”

“This is where we’re picnicking.”

“But, we don’t know who owns this orchard.”

“I know.”

“Mark, we can’t just... _ trespass.  _ We’ll get in trouble!”

“I know that.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“If it means getting to spend the afternoon with the most beautiful girl in England, lolling about in the grass and soaking up the sun, then yes, I’m perfectly okay with that.”

Bridget had blushed furiously at this. Eight days or eight months, it didn’t matter how long she had been with Mark--she still couldn’t believe he had chosen her out of all the other girls in the world. Mark grinned at her from across the front seat before turning away to open his door. Scrambling to follow him, Bridget opened her own door and exited on her side. On the other side of the car, Mark had his hands reaching up to the sky and his back arched in a glorious stretch. He had tipped his hat back off of his forehead, and the cuffs of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows. 

Leaning against the roof of the car, Bridget looked at him over the top and smiled. “So what kind of picnic did you pack for us?” she inquired. 

“Sandwiches, of course. Maybe a beer or two. If you’re really good, I may have even had my mother bake us a chocolate cake.”

Bridget clapped her hands and said, “Well, in that case, we best get moving. I can’t deny myself your mother’s cake.” Mark grinned at her in agreement.

Picnic basket in one hand and his camera in the other, Mark led the way into the orchard through the rows of white flowered trees. Bridget, given the job of carrying the checkered blanket, took secret pleasure in following Mark--the vantage point she had of his bum was very nice, and she had no qualms about staring openly at it. 

At about fifty paces in, Mark stopped short and looked around. It was quiet in the orchard, the breeze rolling through sporadically and picking up the hem of Bridget’s skirt to flounce around her legs. She took a deep breath, appreciating the fresh air and the warmth of the sun on her back. Mark looked to her, smiled, and said, “I think this is perfect.”

Bridget nodded her agreement with a smile. She shook the blanket out in front of her, and kneeled down to smooth it out on the ground. Mark had placed the basket in one corner of the blanket and was soon sprawled out next to it. He had his hands behind his head, his hat completely forgotten next to him. Bridget reclined next to him, admiring his features as he lay prone with his face towards the sun. 

“Bridget, stop staring at me,” he groused, risking one eye to look at her.

“I’m not staring, I’m admiring.”

“There’s nothing to admire.”

“I beg to differ.”

At this, Mark suddenly lept up and wrapped his arms around her waist before pinning her down in an enormous hug. She laughed openly as he looked down at her, one errant curl crossing his forehead. 

“You’d better let me go, before I yell for help,” she giggled as she helplessly writhed in his arms.

“Hmm,” he murmured, quirking an eyebrow at her. “I suppose you couldn’t yell for help if I did this…” With that, Mark leaned down and claimed her mouth with his own. All of Bridget’s giggles melted into a moan as she succumbed to his kiss. When they broke apart, she was left breathless on the blanket as she softly stared up at Mark.

“What was that for?” she said, unable to keep the smile off of her face.

“For being perfect,” he replied before bending down once more to kiss her on the tip of her nose. Pushing himself back up into a sitting position, he continued. “Roast beef or ham?” 

Bridget sat up and ran a hand over her hair, smoothing out the back of it. “Ham, please,” she replied as she straightened her skirt. Mark handed her the sandwich, along with a bottle of beer. 

“To Britain--may we win this war and get everyone home safely,” Mark said, raising his bottle to clink the neck of it against Bridget’s. 

“Yes, to Britain,” she returned, awkwardly avoiding his gaze. The past few months had been strange and dreamlike--so many of their friends had gotten drafted into the war, and it was on an almost weekly basis that news came back to town of someone getting killed in the line of duty. Mark was more affected than Bridget--between his hometown friends and those who had graduated from Cambridge before him, he knew far too many people fighting against the Nazis to not be on constant pins and needles. For now, he was lucky enough to avoid the draft due to his schooling, but that reprieve would only be an option for a few more months.

The two ate in relative silence, both caught up in their own thoughts after Mark’s toast. Occasionally, Mark would lean over to give her a kiss on the cheek, or Bridget would nudge his shoulder to point out a bird or some kind of wildlife that crossed into view. Once the sandwiches were finished, the beer was drunk, and the cake was polished off, Mark reclined into Bridget’s lap, his head across her thighs.

At this angle, Bridget could stare as freely at her boyfriend as she wanted. She buried her left hand into Mark’s hair, allowing her nails to rake over his scalp with gentle ease. Every worried crease that lined Mark’s face practically melted at her touch. She watched the tension slip from his brow and felt him relax against her. He had his hands crossed on his stomach, the long, elegant lines of his fingers twitching every so often when there was a particularly wonderful passing of Bridget’s hand through his hair. Occasionally she would dip her hand down, trailing a finger across the strong plane of his brow, down the length of his nose, gently brushing the bow of his lips. She could feel a puff of breath against her fingertip with each pass. 

“You’re going to put me to sleep,” Mark murmured, not bothering to open his eyes. 

“Would that be so terrible?” Bridget replied, running the pad of her thumb along the crest of his cheekbone.

“I suppose not. Haven’t really been sleeping well anyway.”

“Why not?’

“Thinking about things. Still processing everything with James, I suppose.” 

Bridget looked down at Mark’s face, still unmarred by concern or worry as her hand caressed his scalp. She knew, though, that beneath the surface, Mark was hurting. James had been his friend at university, two years ahead of Mark, but an incredibly close friend to him. Mark had received news two weeks prior that James had been killed in the line of duty. He had been drafted in late December, shipped out in January to Oslo, and killed in the beginning of April when Hitler had invaded Norway. 

Bridget leaned down and placed a small kiss in the middle of Mark’s forehead. “I’m sorry, love,” she whispered. 

Mark opened his eyes slowly, gazing up at her as if she were part of a fever dream. “It’s not your fault,” he murmured. “Bad things happen to good people sometimes.”

There was a tense second before Bridget said what they both were thinking.

“Does it ever scare you?”

“Does what ever scare me?”

“The draft. Going to war.”

“I think it scares everyone.”

“But Mark, it’s a very real possibility for you. You must know that.”

Bridget hated herself the second the words came out of her mouth. Of course he knew it was a possibility for him, probably more than most young men his age. He was smart, and able bodied, and once he was finished with his schooling, he would be a viable candidate. If anyone knew that the draft was a possibility, it was Mark.

He continued to gaze up at her, the tiniest indication of concern creeping back into his features. 

“Bridget, why are we talking about this?”

“Because I want to. Because it scares  _ me. _ Because if I don’t talk about it, I feel like I’m going to explode.”

At this, Mark sat up from Bridget’s lap and turned his body towards her. 

“Do you really think about it that often?”

Bridget bit her bottom lip, willing the tears that were threatening to spill over her eyelashes to go away. She blinked a few times before nodding. “I think about it all the time,” she choked out. “I-I don’t know what I’d do, Mark, if you went off and what happened to James...happened to you.”

Mark was now practically on top of her, the heat of his body giving her a small source of comfort. She could see the flecks of amber in his eyes, and the barely discernible smattering of freckles on his nose. Concern and sadness were clouding his features, and Bridget wished in that instant that she could take back the entire conversation. 

“Bridget,” he started, putting his palm against the heat of her cheek. A tear spilled past her eyelashes, running a path down the back of Mark’s hand. “Darling.”

Bridget looked into his eyes, trying to mentally wipe any memories of the conversation he had from his mind. She didn’t want to cause him any more pain than he was already in, and it crippled her to think that she had even mentioned it.

“Of course it scares me,” he whispered. “The thought of having to leave you scares me. The thought of causing you any pain scares me. The entire things scares me.” At this, Mark paused before continuing. “But in the same breath, Bridget, if I  _ do  _ get called to war, I have to go. I’ve already resigned myself to that fact. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing that other men are sacrificing their lives for our country if I wasn’t there with them.”

Bile crept up the back of Bridget’s throat at Mark’s statement. Part of her had always known that Mark would be this way--moral and noble, making sure to do the right thing no matter what the impact was on his own life. It didn’t soften the blow, though. Instead of replying, for fear of sobbing or vomiting, Bridget simply gave Mark a curt nod to indicate that she understood. 

“Leaving you will be the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do, but so help me Bridget, I’ll come back to you.”

Unable to hold back any longer, Bridget threw herself at Mark with a gut wrenching sob. The hat she had been wearing fell off of her head, but she didn’t care. Anticipating her reaction, Mark caught her in his arms, already murmuring soft words of sympathy and love into her hair as she sobbed into his shirt collar. She could feel the heat of his words against her hair, the gentle brushing of his lips against each strand as he said, “I love you so much, Bridget, so very much,” over and over again. She couldn’t find the breath to respond.

After what seemed like hours, but in reality was only minutes, Bridget peeled herself away from Mark’s damp shirt collar to look at him. She hadn’t noticed that he had been crying too--the faintest hint of tear tracks were on his cheeks, which he quickly wiped away with the back of his hand before offering her his handkerchief. Gratefully, Bridget took it from him and wiped her face and nose. Mark leaned in to kiss away the last of her tears, the pad of his thumb swiping reassuringly across her cheek.

“Let’s not ruminate on this any longer,” he said, his face only inches away from hers. “It is far too beautiful a day to sit here in sadness, and you are far too beautiful a girl to be looking so sad.”

Bridget let out a chuckle, her voice still heavy from her crying jag. Mark stood up and offered her his hand. Bridget took it from him and stood up, smoothing out the wrinkles in the skirt of her dress. Gently, Mark placed her sun hat back on her head before dipping below its brim to pepper her face with kisses. Bridget laughed at the absurdity of it--to talk about going to war and then suddenly be barraged by kisses was comical.

Hearing her laugh, Mark chuckled into her neck before looping his arms around her waist and lifting her straight off of the ground. Bridget let out a squeal as Mark spun her in a circle, his hands cupping her bottom and his face practically buried in her chest.

“You beast!” she jokingly called out as she clasped her hat to her head.

“And you, a beauty!” came his muffled reply. 

Mark placed her gently back on the ground and she looked up at him with a grin across her face. 

“There you are,” he said softly, his own smile playing on his lips. “Stay just like that. I want to take your picture, with that smile on your face.”

Bridget rolled her eyes as Mark set up his camera a short distance from them. She watched him prop the camera up on a stack of discarded apple crates, then peer through the viewfinder. She cheekily posed on the other side of the lens, lifting the hem of her skirt to mid-thigh as she puckered her lips in a mock kiss. Mark grinned at her from the other side of the camera before hurrying back to her side. 

“We have 10 seconds. Make sure to hitch that dress a little higher for me,” he said as he wound his arm around her waist.

As the lens clicked shut, Bridget laughed aloud at Mark’s comment. She knew she hadn’t been looking into the camera, but she hadn’t realized that Mark wasn’t either. 

Instead of laughing along with her, though, he had been staring at her with the idea in his head that leaving her was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever have to do.


	4. August 1940

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continued thanks for all of the kudos & comments! Hopefully you enjoy this chapter :) 
> 
> I want to make mention that this will probably be the extent that I mention Daniel Cleaver--I really just am using him as a filler for Bridget's husband, and he seemed the obvious choice. There's no weird animosity between him and Mark in this particular fic, but I _do_ see him as canonically as possible. Just a little something to note while you're reading :)

**2001 : London**

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air between Molly and Bridget. 

Their relationship had always been one that Molly considered strong--they got along famously, had similar personalities, and always had a laugh at her dad’s expense when given the chance. Rarely, though, did their relationship get this  _ real. _ Molly didn’t know if it was because she never asked, or if it was because they just didn’t deem it necessary to talk about Bridget’s past, but now that so much was on the table Molly didn’t really know how to respond.

As she looked at her grandmother across the table, she couldn’t help the tears that rimmed her eyes. She swiped at them, willing them to go away on their own. This man that her grandmother spoke of wasn’t even her grandfather, but she felt like she had known him more intimately than she ever had known Daniel Cleaver. She knew that Bridget and Daniel had met at work--Bridget was his secretary--in 1950. Bridget always pushed it off as a whirlwind romance, and Molly could see that. Her grandfather was a bit of a cad...charming as hell, but with a toothy smile that made him seem just a little insincere. Whenever her grandmother talked about him, it was never with this softness that she was now showing. It was usually with an eye roll and a smile at something asinine that he had done. 

Molly never thought that her grandparents didn’t love each other--they wouldn’t have lasted almost 50 years if that had been the case. But she also never thought that her grandmother had loved anyone else. It was clearly evident that she loved Mark, and it was clearly evident that she loved him far more than she had loved her grandfather. Even now, as she looked at her grandmother across the expanse of oak table between them, she could see the softness in her eyes, the small but sad smile on her lips, the relaxed slump in her shoulders of someone who resigned themselves to defeat after years of fighting it. These things were never there when she talked about Daniel. 

Clearing her throat, Molly tried to push the awkward silence that hung like cobwebs out of the way. Bridget’s head snapped up, pulled from her reverie by the sound. Molly gave her a sad smile, still fighting the lump that had risen in her throat at her grandmother’s story. She was dying to know more, but wasn’t sure just how far she could push her grandmother before it became awkward for her. Chalking her bravery up to the openness of their relationship, Molly made a last ditch effort to see where she could get the story to go.

In the box in front of them, Molly had noticed a small newspaper clipping. It had stuck out to her because it was so different from most of the other things in the box. The edges were curled, and the print on the clipping was faded against the yellowish gray of the paper. In large letters along the top of the clipping were the words, “ _ LONDON HAS 6 HOUR RAIDS” _ . 

Of course she had learned about the air raids in history classes, but it never really hit Molly until that second that her grandmother had actually  _ lived _ through them. Her heart hurt just at the thought of it. It must have been panic-inducing to listen to the sound of the Luftwaffe overhead, wondering whether or not your village would be the one to get bombed. She couldn’t imagine having friends and family in London, knowing that their beautiful city was being reduced to unrecognizable rubble. But she also felt a swell of pride in both her grandmother and her country--in true British fashion, they picked themselves up by the bootstraps and carried on.

Molly fingered the paper in her hand before handing it over to Bridget.

“What’s the significance of this?” she asked quietly, searching her grandmother’s face for a sign of recognition.

The response she got was not one she anticipated.

Bridget took the clipping from Molly’s hand, her brow furrowed in thought as she looked at the bold type across the top. Suddenly, she let out a bark of laughter before clapping a hand over her mouth. Her bright blue eyes twinkled over her hand as she looked at her granddaughter, a blush clearly visible on the apples of her cheeks. 

“What is it?” Molly asked with a laugh.

“Well, you see...oh, I can’t.”

“Gram! Come on! You have to say now!”

Bridget bit her lower lip, the twinkle in her eyes still sparkling from across the way. She huffed a sigh before locking eyes with Molly.

“Well, you see...oh, Molly, don’t make me say it.”

“Gram!”

“ _ Bollocks. _ Okay, well. This, my sweet, darling, innocent granddaughter, was when I...well... _ gave up my flower.” _

Molly felt herself blanch. She  _ hadn’t _ expected that. At all.

Bridget mistook her granddaughter’s discomfort for confusion and painstakingly went on. 

“You know...oh, don’t make me explain it. You know! I know you know. You’re bloody twenty-one-years-old for Christ’s sake. Fine. When a man and a woman love each other very mu-”

“ _ Gram! _ I get it! I know!” Molly felt all of the air rush out of her lungs as she desperately tried to stave off her grandmother’s verbal incontinence. She could see Bridget set her teeth as she gave Molly a steely look.

“ _ Fine.  _ No need to be so brash about it.”

Molly huffed a laugh before saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I just...y’know, didn’t want you to think I didn’t know what you were talking about.” She gave Bridget’s hand a squeeze before saying, “So what’s with the Blitzkrieg clipping? Was it that... _ explosive?” _

It was Bridget’s turn to laugh, which soon dissolved Molly into her own giggles. 

“You’re absolutely terrible, do you know that?” 

“I get it from you. Now tell me what happened.”   
  


 

**August, 1940 : Grafton Underwood**

The summer had gone by in a flash. It had started out in a rush, the possibility of spending every second together too delicious of a temptation to ignore. It peaked into a slow, comfortable murmur of gentle caresses, shared glances across tables, and leisurely strolls that usually ended with Mark’s mouth claiming Bridget’s for far longer than either of them had known before. The summer months, however, descended in the way a wagon descends a hill--frantic and at high speed, a certain level of panic evident in the ride. 

Bridget never had a doubt that Mark would find pupillage at the Inns of Court--he was brilliant and had graduated from Cambridge with top marks. August, though, meant that they only had one month left before Mark would move to London to start his term. If the beginning of the summer had been spent as inseparable as possible, the end of the summer was  _ ad nauseum _ . Almost every day, Mark would pick Bridget up--by foot, by bike, by car, it didn’t matter--and they would spend the entire day together. By the time the end of August was approaching, they were both brown and freckled from endless hours in the sun, Bridget’s hair even blonder than normal and the bridge of Mark’s nose dusted with the faintest smattering of freckles.

One night, after seeing  _ Rebecca _ at the local movie theater, Mark took it upon himself to drive Bridget aimlessly through the countryside that surrounded Grafton Underwood. The stars were abundant in the inkiness of the night sky, and Bridget took refuge from the cool air coming in through the window by burrowing herself into Mark’s side as he drove. His arm was slung around her shoulders, pulling her into him so he could occasionally place a kiss against her hair as he coasted through the hills. Bridget could smell his aftershave clinging to the cotton of his button-down and feel the warmth of his bare forearm against the chilled skin of her arm. She allowed a pleasured shiver to run through her as her eyes became heavy with sleepiness.

As they drove along, the radio was barely discernible--neither of them were really listening, but it was a quiet lull in the background of crickets chirping and the breeze blowing. Neither Mark or Bridget had said a word since Mark’s meandering had started, but it seemed to be fine with both of them. The silence was comfortable, contemplative. 

Suddenly, Mark pulled the sedan over to the side of the road. Mark’s voice vibrated against her chest as he began to speak.

“You know, we’ve been together almost a year.”

Bridget hummed in agreement. She had secretly been thinking about this detail for weeks. She hadn’t wanted to seem eager or immature by bringing it up, so she kept it to herself. Relief flooded through her body, though, when Mark mentioned it.  _ He remembered. _

“Have you ever...have you ever thought about us being more…?” Mark trailed off. Bridget could feel his body heat rising through his shirt as he cleared his throat. She pushed off of his chest to sit up, gazing intently at him. He kept his face forward, but glanced at her out of the side of his eyes. 

“Thought about us being more what?” she asked. 

Mark was visibly uncomfortable now. The color on his cheeks was flushed, even in the moonlight, and Bridget had the slightest inkling that she held the upper hand in whatever conversation it was that they were having. Gently, he grabbed at the knot of the tie around his neck, unnecessarily adjusting it as he continued to stare at the steering wheel in front of him.

“Mark? Thought about us being more what?” Bridget pressed on, laying a hand on his arm. Mark practically jumped out of his skin at the contact, and Bridget’s brow furrowed as she pulled her hand away. It was as if she had been scalded. “Mark, what’s wrong?”

Clearing his throat again, Mark shook his head. “Nothing, nothing,” he said. 

“Mark,” Bridget said sharply, “there is  _ clearly _ something wrong, and I want you to tell me this instant.”

The tone of Bridget’s voice seemed to snap him out of his reverie. He finally looked over at her, locking his brown eyes onto her blue ones. He took a steadying breath before saying, “Have you ever thought about us becoming more... _ intimate.” _

It was Bridget’s turn to stare blankly at the steering wheel. She felt like the air had been punched from her lungs, and her palms immediately began to sweat. Of  _ course _ she had thought about it--the entire summer was mostly spent fantasizing about Mark’s hands on her bare skin, the nip of her teeth against his pulse point, the moment that they finally came together in the most intimate of situations. She hadn’t verbalized these thoughts, of course. Despite their being together for almost a year, she still had a certain sense of decorum to keep. She didn’t want Mark thinking she was loose or experienced. 

She also knew, though, that she wanted Mark to be her first.

Suddenly, Bridget felt Mark’s large hand enclose her. “Bridget, darling, I’m sorry I even brought it up. I don’t want to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do. It was...it was stupid of me to even ask.” Bridget still didn’t know how to respond to his question--was honesty the best policy in this situation?--so she kept her mouth shut. The silence hung in the air like smoke. Mark gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Bridget?”

Slowly, Bridget brought her eyes to Mark’s. Her mother’s voice was like background noise in her head-- _ A lady doesn’t give her flower away, Bridget! If he has the milk for free, he certainly won’t buy the cow!  _ But God, did she want it. She wanted it more than she cared to admit, and she didn’t care how or when she got it. Now that Mark had opened the floor for discussion, she wanted to bypass the words and compromises and get straight to the point. 

“Mark,” she rasped, “I-I…” Before she could stop herself, her hand enclosed Mark’s necktie and yanked it towards her. Mark followed willingly--if not by complete surprise--and their mouths locked in a searing kiss. Bridget felt his hand come up to cup her face, pushing her hair off of her cheek and cradling her chin, and he let out a choked moan that vibrated off of her lips. She smiled against his mouth, relishing the feeling of his warmth against her. 

Mark, however, didn’t smile back. Instead, he pulled himself away from her mouth. Confusion and concern marred his handsome features, and he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Bridget, are you sure about this?” he said. His voice was gravel and grit, and the pupils of his eyes were completely blown wide. 

Bridget looked at him, then nodded down towards his trousers. “Seems that you’re sure about it,” she said. Mark looked towards where she had gestured and immediately flushed bright red. 

“Bridget,” he continued, “we haven’t discussed this at all. This is a huge step. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or have you feel like you’re being, oh, I don’t know, forced into it. And I certainly don’t want to have our first time be in the backseat of my parents’ car.” He gesticulated wildly, the color still high on his cheeks. “We’re in the bloody car for Christ’s sake!” he barked. 

Bridget had anticipated a reaction like this from her boyfriend. It was no secret that he was righteous and noble, and this “huge step” that he was asking her to take probably made him more uncomfortable than it did her. Being a gentleman was ingrained into him, and because he loved Bridget, he wouldn’t do anything to soil her name for his own pleasure. Bridget, on the other hand, was ready to go. She knew it wouldn’t be soiling her name if the deed was with Mark. If anything, he was the  _ only _ person she would even consider for it. 

“I don’t care that we’re in a car,” she murmured. Leaning forward, she let her lips brush against his earlobe as she continued. “I want you, Mark. I have all summer.” She lingered there, allowing her breath to gently puff against his ear. She could feel him shift uncomfortably next to her and she listened to him swallow loudly. Spurred on by the heady feeling of having the upperhand, Bridget then whispered, “Don’t you want me?”  
  
“Bridget,” he choked out. “Stop.”

“No.” Placing two fingers against his jawline, Bridget turned Mark’s head towards hers. Mark’s breath was ragged against her cheek. “Kiss me,” she whispered. Mark swallowed again, the bob of his Adam’s apple barely visible in her peripheral line of vision. “Please?

That was all it took.

Once Mark’s mouth covered hers, they were at each other like a starved man to a meal. Bridget’s hands fumbled with Mark’s tie and the buttons on his shirt while she felt him frantically pull up the fabric of her skirt. When she felt the heat of his hands on the skin of her hips, she let out a gasp against his mouth. It was better than anything she had imagined. Mark was now kissing her throat, his teeth gently grazing against the skin at her collarbone while he deftly unbuttoned the three buttons that held the top of her dress closed. In the cramped space between their bodies, Bridget was trying to undo Mark’s belt, but failing miserably. 

Mark broke away from the heat of Bridget’s skin to undo the belt himself, and Bridget was able to really look at him while he pulled the belt apart and undid his fly. He was unabashedly beautiful like this. A curl fell across his forehead, and his mouth hung slack as he fumbled with the button on his fly. The buttons of his shirt were undone, so his shirt hung open and his tie lay slack against the fabric. He still had the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up, and Bridget could see the muscles in his forearms working as he finally got the button undone. His chest--tanned and taut--heaved in the moonlight as he took another ragged breath before looking down at her. 

“Crikey. You’ve never looked more beautiful,” he croaked out. Mark made to come down to her level again, but stopped short. He hesitated before saying, “You’re absolutely sure?”

Bridget laughed. “Shut up and get down here.”

Mark’s face broke into a toothy grin--one that she saw rarely, when Mark was really,  _ really _ happy--and he dipped down again to claim her mouth with his own. Bridget allowed her hands to roam over the hot, smooth skin of his chest then raked her nails along the broad span of his back. Mark groaned into her mouth as he scrambled with her skirt, pulling it up between them without breaking the kiss they were now engaged in. 

“This may hurt,” he murmured against her lips. 

Pulling back, Bridget looked at him intently before saying, “I trust you.”

“You’ll...you’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

“Yes.

“Bridget, promise me.”

Bridget rolled her eyes before saying, “Mark, I promise. Just bloody get on with it.” Mark didn’t laugh this time. Instead, Bridget felt him slowly guide himself into her. She let out a hiss at the initial contact--it felt so alien, to be this close to someone when she had been the only person to ever know that part of herself. Mark stopped, afraid of going too far. Bridget gently kissed him on the lips before saying, “I’m fine. I promise.” She felt him nod against her before he continued with the task at hand. There was the briefest sensation of pain before it disappeared. 

Mark’s hips were now completely locked against hers, and he looked down at her with a softness in his eyes that made her melt. “Are you alright?” he whispered. She nodded, afraid to try and speak for fear of a sob escaping. She wasn’t in pain or upset--the entire situation was just overwhelming, and as she looked up into Mark’s face, she felt a love for him so intense that it created a lump in her throat. Mark gave her a smile and ran his knuckles over her cheek. “My darling, beautiful, wonderful Bridget,” he murmured. 

With a tender look on his face, Mark started to pump his hips against hers. The first few thrusts were painful, and Bridget bit down on her lip to avoid crying out. After a minute or two, though, the pain became pleasurable, and she couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her lips. Mark dipped down at placed a kiss against the skin behind her ear, and Bridget wound her fingers into his hair to try and anchor herself to the moment.

Soon, she could feel herself starting to climax. She panted against Mark’s neck, his name a breathy whisper against his skin. The moment was overwhelming, driving her climax from sheer adrenaline and wild disbelief. She could hear Mark murmuring words of encouragement, snippets of  _ beautiful _ and  _ love _ ghosting into her ear. Suddenly, she couldn’t control the feeling any longer and she yelped out his name, her hands scrabbling for some kind of hold. With two more thrusts, Mark was joining her in her ecstasy, his own climax coming out in a shout. 

Mark’s shout, however, was suddenly drowned out by the hum of an engine and the scream of a propeller. 

“Oh no,” she heard Mark say above her as he quickly scrambled off of her. “No, no, no.”

“Mark, what is it?” she said, the panic rising in the back of her throat like bile.

“The Luftwaffe,” he said. “The fucking Luftwaffe.” Bridget had never seen Mark this frantic. He was scrambling to button his shirt, his usually deft fingers fumbling over themselves as he leaned forward to look at the night sky in front of them. Bridget readjusted her skirt and redid her own buttons before running a hand over her hair to smooth it down.

The beauty of the moment between them was completely lost as she watched the three planes in front of them approach the sedan. They were low in the sky, the metallic silver of their bodies glinting in the moonlight like barracudas. Their propellers whined and screamed into the night, echoing off of their ear drums and shaking the frame of the car. Bridget could see Mark’s hands visibly shaking as he fumbled with the car keys. 

She reached out a hand to help steady him, but saw her own hand trembling before her. Actual bile was now lingering at the back of her throat, and she realized that she was openly sobbing. “Mark,” she sobbed, “Mark, hold me.” Looking towards her, Mark’s face shattered. His brows knit together in concern, and his Adam’s apple bobbed with a heavy swallow. All words seemed to be lost on him. He gave her a silent nod, his own tears welling up in his eyes as he took Bridget in his arms and held her close. She could feel his lips against her hair as she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. He was rocking her--whether he realized it or not, she wasn’t sure. Bridget wrapped her own arms around his torso, desperately trying to ignore the wail of the Nazi planes that were hanging low in the sky, heading straight for their village.

Seconds later, there was silence. Slowly, Bridget opened her eyes and loosened her grip on Mark’s shirt. He hadn’t let go of her yet, and Bridget had to carefully remove herself from his arms. She looked into his face and saw that silent tears streaked his face, his mouth slack as he breathed heavily through it. “Are you okay?” she asked, reaching out a hand to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Mark closed his eyes as she swiped at the wetness, nodding as he took a gulp of air.

“I’m okay,” he said quietly. Opening his eyes, he looked at her and said, “Are you?” Bridget nodded silently. He sighed in relief before taking her back into his arms, pressing one long kiss against the crown of her head. “I love you so much, Bridget,” he said. 

Muffled against his chest, Bridget could only choke out a sob. Once she had started, she couldn’t stop, and Mark held her to his chest, rocking her gently and repeating his love for her over and over again. 

It was the only sound she heard in the still of the night.

 


	5. December, 1940

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pure, untouched fluff. Enjoy :)

**2001 : London**

It hurt. Even though it wasn’t her story and it had happened over sixty years ago, Molly could still feel the visceral pain that now looked at her across the table in her grandmother’s eyes. 

“I’m so sorry, Gram,” she said, her voice quieter than she had intended. 

Bridget closed her eyes, a sad smile playing on her lips as she shook her head. “Nothing to be sorry about, poppet. I have no regrets about it. Would I have liked a fairytale ending? Of course. But that’s what being at war is like--making sacrifices and holding onto small pieces of happiness when you can.”

“Was it at least a good shag?” Molly said. This was always her default--making jokes when she was most uncomfortable--and luckily Bridget grinned at her from across the table.

“You’re just like your grandfather, crass at the most inappropriate moments. Yes, it was a very good shag. Probably the best I’ve ever had, albeit there have only been two.” 

Molly mimed wiping her forehead with exaggeration, breathing out a loud  _ phew! _ “Thank  _ God.  _ I would have hated to think that in your 80 years of living you never got shagged into oblivion.”

“For God’s sake, Molly…” Molly grinned wickedly at Bridget, and Bridget returned it with some hesitation. “I got shagged into oblivion plenty of times,” she muttered. At this, Molly laughed out loud, and soon Bridget joined in. 

The mood much lighter, Molly offered a photograph to Bridget that she had picked out of the box. “What was going on here?”

Bridget looked at it through her glasses, her eyes squinted in thought. In the photo, her and Mark were standing quite formally next to each other. He was wearing a smart looking tuxedo that framed the square length of his shoulders and made his legs look even longer than they already were. As always, his hair was a mass of fluffy curls on top of his head. He looked smug in the photo, one hand in his pants pocket and the other looped around Bridget’s waist. Bridget, on the other hand, looked radiant. She was dressed in a floor-length gown that hugged her figure in all the right places. The fabric was dark with a smattering of sequins across the waistband and up the front of the bodice. It had wide shoulders and a cinched waist that made her look devastatingly beautiful. Her hair was shorter than it had been in the previous photos, but it still looked shiny and full. Molly had noticed that her grandmother was closer to Mark’s height, due to the high heels she was wearing. Her leg was cocked slightly towards Mark in a picture perfect pose, her megawatt smile on display for the world to see. Behind them was a large, elaborate looking Christmas tree.

Flipping the photo over, Bridget noticed that  _ Christmas Party, 1940 _ was scrawled on the back of it.

“Oh, I know what this is from! It was from Mark’s parents’ annual Christmas party. It was always a big to do. He came from money, and his father was a retired admiral so there were always very important people that were invited. It was my second Christmas with Mark, and I remember being so embarrassed at the first party because I wasn’t dressed nearly as nicely as I should have been. So for this particular party, I had Mrs. Smith at the dress shop I worked at make this for me.”

She paused, just long enough for a smile to crawl onto her lips. “I saved up weeks’ worth of pay for it, and it was worth every penny to see Mark’s face when I walked into his parents’.”

 

* * *

 

**December, 1940 : Grafton Underwood**

The Darcy’s annual Christmas party was one of the biggest gatherings in Grafton Underwood, and just the thought of attending made Bridget’s palms sweat. The year prior had been a disaster, as far as she was concerned--the gray wool dress she had chosen to wear stuck out like a sore thumb amongst all of the gorgeous gowns and tuxedos of the other attendees, and it made her cringe anytime she thought of it. Mark, of course, had raved about how utterly gorgeous she looked, but it did nothing to convince Bridget. 

As December approached the second time in their relationship, Bridget made it a point to have a much nicer dress for the occasion. She commissioned Mrs. Smith to make her a dress similar to one she had seen by the designer Adrian. Bridget almost cried when she saw the finished product--it was by far the most elegant thing she had ever owned, and she showered Mrs. Smith with excessive thanks, and maybe a hug that lingered just a smidgen too long. It was everything she had wanted--striking from front to back, where it dipped low to show off her shoulder blades.

When she had walked through the grandiose front doors of the Darcy mansion on the night of the party, she had run into Elaine Darcy first. She cooed over Bridget, a grin breaking across her face. She looked quite regal in a black and emerald gown that had sparkly gems sewn here and there down the bodice. Her steely gray hair was pulled back off of her face and off of her neck in elegant loops and dips, all held together with what Bridget  _ knew _ was a real diamond and emerald comb. When Bridget pulled the fur stole off of her shoulders, she saw Elaine’s eyebrows raise ever so slightly as she looked at the bare skin of Bridget’s back glowing against the dark fabric.

Bridget didn’t care, though. She knew she looked beautiful, and she felt every inch as glamorous as Katharine Hepburn. Elaine escorted her into the house, through the foyer and into the large dining room that had essentially been transformed into a ballroom. People were milling about, and she felt several eyes linger on her as she followed Elaine through the room. In the distance, she could see Mark talking to one of his friends from Cambridge. His back was mostly to her, and she could see a glass of champagne hanging with a certain easiness from his long fingers as if he’d been drinking it since he was a boy.

The friend Mark was speaking to--Bridget was sure his name was James--looked across the room to where she was approaching and went slightly slack jawed before nudging Mark and gesturing towards Bridget with his head. She watched as her boyfriend turned towards her, bringing the champagne flute to his lips to take a sip but stopping short before the glass made contact with his mouth. She was only a few feet from him at this point, and she could see the glitter in his eye when he realized that it was her approaching him. In nanoseconds, the glitter of recognition dropped into shock as he looked at her from top to bottom.

“Bridget,” he breathed out. James laughed at that, taking his own sip of champagne to hide the smile that was now on his face. “My God, you look gorgeous,” Mark went on, choosing to ignore his friend. 

Bridget felt the heat rise in her face as she looked down at herself. “You like it?” she asked. Silently, Mark nodded, his eyes wide as saucers as he approached her. Bridget felt Elaine slide away from them, and she felt relief at the woman’s sense of decorum. He wound an arm around her waist to dip down and give her a small kiss on her lips, his fingertips brushing along the exposed skin on her back. Before his lips met hers, he looked at her in shock before leaning over her shoulder to look at the deep-V of fabric that showcased her back. 

“Bridget,” he murmured. Taking her hand, he twirled her around to get the full effect of the dress, only to stop her once she was facing him again so that he could properly kiss her, party be damned. “Gorgeous doesn’t even begin to describe how incredible you look tonight.” His voice was low gravel and sent a spark of pleasure down her spine. 

“Thank you,” she said, looking him in the eye, taking advantage at being a bit higher up to his level. He leaned down again to kiss her on the lips. 

“I plan on showing you off to everyone at this party,” he continued. 

Bridget laughed and said, “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

The rest of the night was a blur. Their photo was taken several times, the flash bulb popping on the dance floor or in front of the twenty foot Christmas tree that towered in the Darcy’s foyer. They danced in each other’s arms, Bridget taking secret pleasure in the feeling of Mark’s fingers on her back, his thumb drawing lazy circles against her skin. They drank champagne by the flute, the bubbles lowering their inhibitions and allowing Mark’s grin to come out far more often than it normally did. On more than one occasion, Mark pulled her from the party to fervently kiss her underneath the mistletoe that hung in the doorway to the sitting room. 

It was the first night in a very long time where the war seemed like a distant memory.

Hours flew by until they were the last two in the dining room, along with Mark’s parents. Servants were bustling around them, cleaning up the remains of the party as the admiral let out a stifled yawn. The clock was nearing midnight, but Bridget and Mark were feeling far too squiffy to care. Elaine looked to her husband before turning to Mark and saying, “Make sure you lock up before you come upstairs.” She looked to Bridget and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “My dear, you were the star of the party tonight. If my son has any brains in his head, he’ll marry you tomorrow.” Bridget blushed crimson at this.

Kissing Mark on the cheek, Elaine patted his arm before linking arms with her husband and heading upstairs to retire for the night. Next to her, Bridget heard Mark let out a contented sigh. Wordlessly, he settled his arm around her waist, his large hand cupping the curve of her hip as he pulled her into his side. “Why don’t we head over to the sitting room? I’m pretty sure Pierce left the fire burning in the fireplace.”

Bridget turned her face up to him, an intoxicated smile creeping onto her lips. “That sounds divine,” she responded. “I can’t wait to get these shoes off.” Mark laughed as he laced his fingers with hers. She willingly followed him out of the dining room, the din of the servants slowly fading behind her as they got further away from the remnants of the party.

Upon entering the sitting room, Mark let go of her hand to start unbuttoning the front of his tuxedo jacket. He slid it off of his arms before draping it over the back of a chair nearby, then started to get to work on his tie. In one deft movement, he had it undone and hanging loosely from his neck. Bridget had settled herself onto the velvet sofa, her shoes long forgotten by the doorway. She was now massaging one of her feet, silently cursing the two inch heels that had put her in this predicament. Mark sat down next to her in a huff before running a hand over his face. He looked over at her, the only light in the room being thrown from the fireplace hearth.

Sleepily, Mark smiled at her, his dimple a deep shadow in his cheek. “I’d say this year was another success,” he said, holding out a hand towards Bridget. Swinging her feet up onto the couch, Bridget slid one of her aching feet into his hands, immediately melting into his touch as he dug into the arch with his thumb. “Don’t know why you wear those bloody things,” he murmured, looking down at the foot in his hand. “Practically cut off your circulation for a bit of height.” He ran his forefinger down a deep impression on the top of her foot where the straps of her shoe had dug in. Bridget rolled her head back onto the arm of the chair, silently giving thanks to whatever deity necessary for the amazing skill that Mark’s hands held.

They sat in comfortable silence, the fire crackling in the hearth as Mark’s hands kneaded all of the aches out of Bridget’s feet. Once satisfied, Bridget swung her feet back around to nestle herself against Mark’s torso. As if by muscle memory, Mark’s arm simply opened up, allowing her to slip under its warm weight before he protectively enclosed her in his embrace. He absentmindedly ran a thumb up and down the fabric on her arm, the beat of his heart thumping against Bridget’s ear. It was a sound she had become familiar with, almost to the point of immediate recognition. She could write a song to it, if she really wanted to. It was strong and steady, just like him.

Mark pressed a kiss against her hair before saying, “You truly were stunning tonight, my love. Where did you get this dress from?”

Bridget laughed. “Believe it or not, Mrs. Smith made it for me. I saved quite a few weeks’ pay to compensate her for it.” She leaned up to look him in the eye. “You really like it that much?”

Mark’s eyes glittered as he dipped them down to look more closely at the sequined bodice. “Like doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel about it. I love it.” He leaned over to place an electric kiss on the exposed skin of her shoulder blade, and Bridget felt immediate goosebumps raise on her arms. “What I don’t like,” he continued, trailing kisses down the length of her spine as he spoke, “is that you had to spend your own money on such a gorgeous gown.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? What’s the point of working if I don’t spend my money on things I need?”

“Oh, this dress was a  _ need? _ ” Mark said coyly before placing another kiss at the lowest part of the V. 

“Yes, it was a  _ need. _ After last year’s disaster of a dress, I needed to make sure I had one this year that made people completely forget about it.” A delicious shiver ran through her body.

Mark hummed in appreciation, his lips still pressed to the heat of her skin. “I suppose that  _ is _ a need.” Bridget could feel the movement of his mouth against her shoulder blade, and she closed her eyes to allow the thrill of his mouth against her to run through her nerves. “What if,” he continued, “I wanted to be able to do that for you.”

“Do what?” she murmured, her eyes suddenly heavy. Between Mark’s languid kisses and the champagne thrumming in her veins, she was slowly being lulled into a state somewhere between asleep and awake. Mark broke off from her back, and Bridget took the opportunity to curl back into his side. 

“Buy your dresses for you. And your jewelry. And really anything else you want.”

“Mark, you do that anyway. I don’t think we’ve spent a holiday or birthday together where you haven’t been more than generous.”

Mark raised his eyebrows and cocked his head in agreement. “That’s true.” He bracketed his chin with his hand, rubbing the dimple that Bridget loved to kiss. “Still, it doesn’t deter me from wanting to provide for you, Bridget.”

“Mark, I don’t need you to provide for me. I can provide for myself.”

“Bridget, I know that.” Mark was starting to visibly get frustrated, and Bridget couldn’t understand why. They had a beautiful night together, and it was promising to be one where Bridget might be able to fall asleep in Mark’s arms before he would rouse her to bring her back to her parents’. She didn’t understand where the sudden change in Mark’s demeanor came from, but it was beginning to frustrate  _ her. _

“Mark, what’s wrong? What have I said now?”

“Nothing, Bridget, nothing. It’s just that I’m...I’m mucking everything up. Again.”

Bridget thought back on their first date, on the way Mark had looked crestfallen and defeated, clearly upset with himself. The cagey look in his eyes now was very reminiscent of that moment. 

“Why are you upset with yourself? We’ve had a wonderful night. Truly, I’m not offended by what you said. Sorry for being a bit of an arse...blame the champagne?” She knew she was babbling at this point, but she couldn’t stop. “I hate to see you upset, Mark. Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

Mark was now fumbling around in his pocket, his eyebrows knit together. Bridget bit her lip, allowing him to work through whatever it was that was occupying his attention. She heard him breathe out an, “ _ Ah,”  _ before turning back towards her. “I’m not upset, Bridget. I mean, I am, just a bit, but not enough to be petulant about it. I was referring to mucking up this.” At that, he held out a small, velvet box. 

Unsure if it was a trick of the champagne or a fever dream, Bridget took several seconds to assess what was in front of her. If she were to really be honest, it seemed as if Mark were proposing to her. But, they hadn’t actually spoken about anything like that before. Of course she had dreamt of it, but she was too shy to ever bring it up to Mark. He had more important things to worry about, like his budding law career. She was just a silly girl from Grafton Underwood--who was to say that he wouldn’t chuck her at any second, just to move onto something better, prettier, shinier?

“Mark,” she said, a hint of question in her tone. “I don’t understand.”

“Ah,” he breathed again. “Seems I forgot the important part.” At that, he slid down to the floor in front of her, one knee bent underneath him. He reverently held the box in front of him, where it was now opened to reveal a stunning diamond ring. He glanced down at the box before looking back up at her. “Bridget Rose Jones, the months that I have spent with you have been the best, if not the most infuriatingly frustrating, months of my life. I don’t want to miss another month without you, or your incorrigible need to argue, or your heart that is far too big to fit inside of your chest. Would you be my wife?”

The breath in Bridget’s lungs caught in her throat and made no attempt to move. Her palms were sweating profusely and she was incredibly close to tears.  _ How in bloody hell could he ever choose me to be his wife? _ she thought incredulously. Looking down at Mark, she couldn’t find the words to say to him. He was giving her a doe-eyed look, his lashes long in the firelight, his mouth set in the line that she knew meant he was determined. 

“Mark, I-I…I don’t know what to say.” At this, his mouth drooped a little, the earnestness in his eyes flickering. 

“That’s not exactly what I thought you would say,” he murmured, making as if to stand up.

“Oh, Mark! That’s not what I meant! Of course I want to marry you!” Bridget quickly covered his hand with hers that had come to rest on her knee. Mark looked up from the floor and met her gaze, relief evident in his features. 

“You do?” he said. 

“Yes, of course I want to marry you! I just don’t know why you want to marry  _ me!” _

At this, Mark rolled his head forward into Bridget’s lap, rubbing his cheek against the silk on her thigh as he placed his hands on either side of her hips. “My God, Bridget, I think you’ve given me a heart attack,” he said in a muffled voice, not bothering to lift his head.

Bridget buried her hand into his hair, giving his scalp a reassuring scritch before lifting his face up with both hands and placing the most reverent of kisses against his lips. “Mark Fitzwilliam Darcy, it would be my honor to marry you. But are you positively  _ sure _ you want to marry me?”

Mark covered Bridget’s hands that still held his face with his own before saying, “I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life. With the state that the world is currently in, I don’t want to worry about not being able to spend another second without you.” He pulled Bridget’s left hand down with his own, and Bridget saw that he was actually trembling. He took a steadying breath before pulling the diamond from the box in his hand. With an imperceptible sigh, Mark slid it onto Bridget’s fourth finger before placing a soft kiss on the knuckle above. 

She looked at the solitaire now sitting on her finger, her own hand now trembling from adrenaline and excitement. “Did your mother know?” she asked him, looking down where he was still kneeling in front of her.

He crossed his arms and leaned against her knees, the dreamiest look in his eyes. “I may have mentioned it,” he said coyly. “It’s actually my grandmother’s ring. I knew Mother had been saving it, so I sort of  _ had _ to mention it.” 

Bridget looked back down at the diamond before grabbing Mark’s face and leaning down to claim his mouth. She felt him moan into her kiss, his arms uncrossing to allow him to bury his hands into her hair, the pads of his thumbs running along the high line of her cheekbones. 

It was in that moment that their happiness eclipsed any possible problem that threatened to inhabit their space. All worries and concerns that had been plaguing them for over a year melted away as they held each other, the promise of hope and happiness sparkling on the horizon, just a stone’s throw away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bridget's dress was loosely based off of [this Katharine Hepburn dress](http://theredlist.com/media/database/fashion2/history/1930/gilbert-adrian-/003-gilbert-adrian-theredlist.jpg), designed by Adrian. Obviously, though, with a [back like this](http://blog.frankelcostume.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/09/Adrian_silver_screen_to_custom_label.jpeg) ;)


	6. February 1941

**2001 : London**

“He  _ proposed _ to you? You were  _ engaged? _ Gram! How did I never know this?!” Molly’s jaw was practically on the floor.  


Bridget smiled at her, mischief and smug satisfaction lingering in the corners of her mouth. She shrugged as she pulled her glasses off of her face, the sharp blue of her eyes flashing across the table. “I’m an enigma,” she said. 

Molly huffed out a laugh, her mouth still slack with disbelief. “Do you have the ring? I mean, how long were you engaged for? Christ’s sake, Gram, how did I never know this before?”

“Yes, I still have the ring. We were engaged for almost four years. And I’m not quite sure. I don’t even know if your father knows.”

 “Can I see the ring?” There was an edge of timidity to Molly’s voice as she asked. Boundaries seemed to be a hazy line at this point, somewhere between appropriate and not. 

Bridget pulled the box towards her and started rummaging through it. Molly watched her with hopeful eyes, not daring to push her luck by breathing. Soon, she extracted a velvet box. Bridget held it in the palm of her hand, fear evident in her eyes before she let them fall on Molly. She took a steadying breath before saying, “Why am I so nervous?"

Molly laughed at this. Her grandmother could be so innocent sometimes and it always surprised Molly. Battering up against the innocence was this fiery passion, and it often overshadowed Bridget’s uncertainties. Concern and fear were still written on Bridget’s features as Molly rearranged her own to a softer expression. “Gram, of course you’d be nervous. When’s the last time you saw it? Sixty years ago?"

“Give or take a few, yes.” 

“Want me to open it?”

“No, I think I should.” At this, Bridget let out a sharp breath through her nose before holding the box in front of her. Molly noted a slight tremor in her hands as she opened the lid, and her heart almost shattered when Bridget broke down. It happened in a split second, the tears welling up in Bridget’s eyes as she brought her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, my,” she said, a waver in her voice crystal clear in the silent room. 

“Gram, are you alright?”

Bridget nodded before saying, “Yes, I’m fine, I’m fine. I just...I just forgot how…” She didn’t finish her sentence, closing her eyes to will away the tears that kept coming. Molly stood up, crossing the room to put her arm around Bridget’s shoulders. It was weird, comforting her 80-year-old grandmother, but the entire journey they’d been on since finding the box had brought them closer, even if it had only been a few hours. 

“It’ll be alright, Gram. We don’t have to keep going through the stuff in the box. I’m sorry I asked you. If it’s too much, we can stop.” Words were just falling out of her mouth at this point, trying to bring some kind of comfort to Bridget as hot tears plopped onto Molly’s arm. 

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Bridget responded, bringing her arm up to pat Molly’s forearm appreciatively. “I just didn’t expect to have so many... _emotions._ I haven’t thought about Mark in years.” She paused before continuing. “That’s a lie. I think about him all the time. Always have, even when I was married to your grandfather. But I suppose I always forget that we were engaged. I was willing to give up anything and everything to follow him to the ends of the earth. I wanted to grow old with him, take care of him when he was sick, feed him dinner every night and wake up to him every morning. You forget about that kind of promise when you’re so caught up in the ‘what-if’.”  

“Makes sense. Especially if he’s half as wonderful as you’ve made him out to be.” Molly couldn’t help glancing at the box that was still in Bridget’s hand, and she couldn’t help the gasp that escaped from her mouth. “ _ Gram!  _ That diamond is  _ huge!” _

At this, Bridget laughed (how could she not?). “Isn’t it? Darcy family heirloom, or so I’m told. I tried giving it back to the Darcys after Mark died, but they insisted I keep it. I put it in this box and just...forgot about it. Forced myself to forget about it, more like.” She took the ring out of the box and handed it to Molly. “Here, try it on.”

Molly slid the diamond onto her finger and stared at it. It had to be two carats at least, with little diamonds in the corners of the setting. The band was engraved with scrollwork, and had other smaller diamonds set along it. It sparkled in the light of the dining room, catching every ray. “Jesus,” Molly whispered, rotating her hand to fully appreciate how gorgeous it was.

“Something else, isn’t it?”

“He must’ve really loved you.”

“We really loved each other. I would’ve done anything for him.”

* * *

 

**1941 : London**

Once they had been engaged, Mark and Bridget spent the better part of the following week spreading their good news and attending parties. Between Christmas and New Year’s, they bounced back and forth between their parents’ homes, and in between they stopped at friends’ and drank far more champagne than they were used to. It seemed as if they were both on Cloud Nine with no chance of ever coming back down. 

Bridget saw Mark smile more in that week than she had in their entire relationship. She never felt prouder to be his girl, and it showed on both of their faces. Mark’s megawatt smile that he usually only reserved for her was on full display for everyone to see, and Bridget rarely navigated a room without Mark’s arm looped around her waist, his hand occasionally giving her an affectionate squeeze on the hip. Almost every night left her mouth red and swollen from Mark’s mouth claiming hers, and she couldn’t care a lick.

When Mark returned to London after the new year, it was painful. They had gone from spending every day together to having miles and miles between them. Bridget found herself writing letters almost everyday to Mark, and based on the amount of mail she was receiving, Mark was doing the same. As if it weren’t bad enough, being that far away from each other, the winter gloom had settled in. 

They survived January, but in Bridget’s true melodramatic fashion, she couldn’t imagine going another month without seeing Mark. Not one to sit around and just hope for a solution, Bridget decided that she’d take action and surprise Mark in London. She paid the fabric delivery man who brought bolts of fabric to Mrs. Smith’s shop every week to drive her back to London with him. She had never been to Mark’s flat, but she had memorized his address by heart from writing it on the fronts of envelopes every week. Luckily Mr. Grant knew London like the back of his hand, so he was able to find the building where Mark lived with relative ease.

As Mr. Grant drove away, Bridget waved to him from the curb, her hand clutching the handle of her suitcase with a bit more force than she normally would have used. She hadn’t told her parents the entire truth about where she was for the weekend--she told a white lie, saying that her and Shaz were going away with Shaz’s family to visit aunts and uncles up north. She fabricated an entire schedule of snowshoeing and hot cocoa by the fire, all promises that would have been possible in the wintry vastness of the English countryside. 

Granted, the wintry scene in front of her was beautiful, it was a far cry from miles of crisp white snow and vast blue sky. The city had its charm, covered in snow, but it was a bit dingier than Bridget had anticipated. The sky stretched out above the tops of the buildings, painted a steely gray that seemed to threaten sleet. The corners of the streets had piles of dirty snow heaped on them, and people picked their way around them as if they didn’t exist. A bitter wind whipped down the street where she stood, and she pulled her fur collar closer around her neck as she held her hat on her head.

Upon entering Mark’s building, she inquired with the doorman where she could find Apartment C4. The doorman gave her directions, to which she thanked him, then promptly started climbing the stairs to where Mark’s flat was located. It wasn’t until the third floor that she became nervous. What if the entire tip was a mistake? What if Mark got angry with her, or even worse, what if he wasn’t home? She’d have to sit in the hallway like a squatter until he came back. 

“Stop being ridiculous,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head. Luckily, finding his apartment was relatively easy. She raised a fist and gave the door a few quick raps. Silence. An unease settled in her stomach before she raised her hand again to knock. More silence. Panic was now rising in her the back of her throat as she double checked the number on the door of the flat, considering that maybe she had the wrong one.  _ What in bloody hell am I going to do if he isn’t here? I don’t know the first thing about London! _ She was just about to raise her hand in one last feeble attempt to summon someone,  _ anyone _ to the door, when she heard rustling on the other side before it flung open. 

Bridget’s grin at the prospect of seeing Mark quickly fell when she saw him. 

He stood before her a disheveled mess. His hair was more unruly than she had ever seen it, sticking up in all places and somehow damp looking, as well. He had bags under his eyes, and they were glassy and bright, wildly searching her face. “Bridget?” he croaked. “This has to be a dream.”

“Mark, what’s wrong?” Bridget said, pushing past him to get into the flat. Heat was radiating off of him, so much so that she could feel it seeping through the fabric of his shirt as she placed a hand on his chest. “My God, you’re burning up!” She cupped his face with the palm of her hand, but he quickly pulled away.

“Bridget, what are you doing here?” He looked panicked. “I-I’m really not feeling well. I mean-- _ god-- _ you’re a sight for sore eyes, but I don’t want to get you sick. You really shouldn’t be here.” A dry bark escaped from him, which he promptly covered with a handkerchief.

Bridget looked Mark from head to toe and tutted. He was wearing a pair of trousers and a button-down with his tie loosened around his neck. His shoes were still on his feet, and she could see over his shoulder that the jacket that matched the trousers was unceremoniously dumped on an armchair by the fire. She looked back to where Mark stood in front of her, and she could see the wild-eyed look of a fever sloshing behind his pupils. 

“Did you go to work today?” she asked him, gently setting her suitcase down next to her.

“I had to. We’re working on a big case.” He stopped for a second, closing his eyes and raising a hand to his forehead. Bridget watched his long, elegant fingers gently caress the spot where his hairline met his forehead in a futile attempt to iron out the creases that sat there from his furrowed brow. “Bridget,” he continued, finally looking her in the eye. “Why the hell are you here? _How_ the hell are you here?"  

“I took a truck.”

“A truck?”

“Mr. Grant drove me in from Grafton Underwood. Mark, you really don’t look well. I think you should sit.” Mark allowed himself to be led from the door after Bridget quietly pushed the door shut, engaging the lock in the door before shedding her coat and hat.  

“Mr. Grant?” he said feebly, plopping down on the couch that he had evidently been napping on when she had arrived.  

“Yes, our fabric man. I wouldn’t expect you to know him. Very nice bloke, knows London like the back of his hand. Mark, darling, look at me.” She cupped his chin and lifted his face to look at her. He let out a pitiful sniffle before she continued. “Darling, I think we need to get you out of these clothes and into some pajamas. Have you eaten anything?” Mark simply shook his head. His hands lay defeatedly in his lap as he watched Bridget bustle about his apartment as if she had been living there the entire time. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said dazedly. “I was literally going to come home this weekend to see you, but then I came down with this blasted cold and everything went to shit.” At this, he took off in a coughing fit.  

“You never should have gone to work, Mark. You look like death’s door.” 

“I feel like it, too,” he admitted, dragging a hand over his face before dropping his head back onto the cushion behind him. “I was asleep when you knocked.”

“I figured as much.” Bridget was now putting a kettle on the small stove that stood in the corner of the open room. She turned around while the water warmed up, surveying the flat in front of her. It was small--only three rooms made up its entirety, the kitchen-living room hybrid they were in now, what appeared to be a bedroom just beyond the couch, and what Bridget assumed was a bathroom. There were stacks of papers everywhere, and rows and rows of books lined the shelves on either side of the fireplace. For all that it lacked in personality, the flat _was_ quite cozy and inviting. There were no pictures up on the walls, no pennants from Cambridge...just legal books and documents.   

Bridget crossed the room to where Mark’s desk sat underneath a window. Sleet had now started to fall outside, smattering the windowpane with fat droplets and clinking ice chips. She walked down the length of it, imagining Mark sitting at the desk and writing her letters before he went to sleep each night. She ran a finger along the piles of papers, fiddling with the fountain pen that her parents had given him upon his graduation from Cambridge. There were a few envelopes scattered about on the desk, some opened and some not. A smile crossed her lips unwillingly as she looked at the ink-smudged papers and lovingly caressed the papers that she knew Mark had spent hours poring over. 

When she turned back around, Mark was blankly staring at her, his hands once again sitting defeatedly in his lap. He gave her a weak smile before holding a hand out to her. Bridget smiled at him and crossed the space between them to take his hand. It was clammy and warm, but it fit hers perfectly. He dragged her down into his lap, all fear of getting her sick forgotten as he buried his head in her shoulder and leaned his burning forehead against the crook of her neck. Lovingly, Bridget looped her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss against the damp hair on the crown of his head. He smelled like sweat and lingering traces of cologne. 

“Even though I’m bloody well pissed that you hitchhiked your way to London--which also leads me to believe that your parents don’t know about your little trip--I’d be remiss to not admit how happy I am that you’re here.” He nuzzled in closer to her, pulling her body into his. She gave him an affectionate squeeze, her mouth still pressed to the top of his head as she felt his chest rise and fall against her own. 

Suddenly, the whistle on the kettle started to shriek on the small stove. Bridget kissed the crown of his head once more before standing up to make him a cup of tea. She looked back over her shoulder and said, “Go put on your pajamas while I take care of this.” Mark stood up with a huff, and Bridget heard him shuffle off towards the bedroom. From the other room, she could hear him sniffling and hacking as drawers opened and closed.  _ Poor darling, _ she thought to herself as she brought the tea over to Mark’s desk. 

While Mark finished getting changed, Bridget once again busied herself with the contents of Mark’s desk. The envelopes seemed to be mostly from her or from work. One envelope, however, had been ripped open in what appeared to be haste. It wasn’t neatly sliced open like the others, but rather looked like Mark had used his finger to wiggle the glue from the paper instead of using the steel letter opener that sat atop one of her letters. She picked the envelope up, looking at the stern “MR. MARK F. DARCY” stamped across the front of it. Innocently, she flipped the back of the envelope open and pulled the letter out. 

At the top of the paper was a heading for Mark’s law office. What followed made Bridget’s stomach drop out. \

 

_ Dear Mr. Darcy, _

_ We thank you for notifying us of your recent enlistment with the British Army. In grave times like this, we are honored and humbled by your selflessness for our country. As you noted in your letter, your leave will be effective March 1, 1941.  _

_ Please know that you are in our thoughts during this most trying time. We wish you nothing but health and success in your endeavor.  _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Theodore McNulty, Esq. _

 

Quickly, Bridget shoved the letter back into the envelope as Mark reentered the room. He looked much softer in his tartan pajamas, wrapped up in a green dressing gown. His shoes were finally gone, but she noticed that he chose to keep on his socks as he padded across the floor to her. When he reached where she stood, Bridget said, “Your tea is ready,” but it came out in a choked mumble. She was valiantly trying to fight down the tears she felt in her eyes. 

Mark hadn’t noticed her dismay. Instead, he wrapped one arm around her waist before planting a chaste kiss on her cheek as he reached around her to grab the steaming mug from the desk. While his attention was directed at blowing steam off the top of the mug, Bridget glued her eyes shut and shoved down the sobs that threatened to escape her.  _ No, _ she said to herself.  _ No crying. You must be just as strong as he is.  _

She gave her head a tiny shake before putting on a brave smile. “Is it okay?” she asked, leaning against the table. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Mark discreetly shove the envelope with the letter from his office underneath a stack of papers that were strewn across the desk. 

“Mmm, yes, perfect. Thank you.” He shuffled back to the couch, where he collapsed. Both hands were wrapped around the mug, his raw nose hovering just above the rim where the steam billowed upward. “I’m bloody knackered,” he said. His voice was raw and scratchy, and Bridget’s heart ached for him. 

“Why don’t I go get changed and we can head to Bedfordshire?” she said, picking up her suitcase in one hand. 

Mark smiled at her. “You’re an angel.” 

Bridget rolled her eyes playfully before crossing the room. She hesitated outside of his bedroom door before turning around. “It  _ is _ alright if I change in your bedroom, isn’t it?” 

Mark laughed at that, turning around to look over the back of the couch to look at her. “I plan on having you sleep in my bed with me, so what difference would it make if you changed in my room? You  _ are _ my fiance.”

“Hmm, hadn’t thought of it like that,” she murmured. A lump rose in her throat as she turned back towards the door and pushed it open. Once inside the sanctuary of Mark’s bedroom, Bridget allowed herself the smallest of breakdowns. Here they were, on the precipice of a happy life together, and he up and enlisted.  _ What did you expect, falling in love with a human rights lawyer? _ she angrily thought to herself as she swiped at the tears under her eyes.  _ He would never allow these atrocities to happen without trying to help the cause himself. _ Angrily, she undid her dress and tossed it into the suitcase, then chucked her shoes in after. With a huff, she pulled on the cotton nightdress she had packed and hastily ran her brush through her hair. Quickly assessing herself in the mirror above Mark’s dresser, she decided that her red-rimmed eyes could be accredited to sleepiness and the shine of her hair would be a worthy distraction. 

Taking a steadying breath, Bridget opened Mark’s bedroom door once more and entered back into the living room. She crossed over to where she had left him on the couch, only to find him lying down, asleep with his head uncomfortably cocked on the arm of the couch. The crying she had so valiantly conquered threatened to bubble back up. He looked so soft, so young. It was unfair and she hated everything in that moment, besides Mark. Crouching down, she ran a hand through the hair on his head before whispering, “Mark, darling, come to bed.”

Mark let out a groan before opening his eyes blearily and looking at her. “Bugger, did I fall asleep?” He swallowed heavily, the sound of his throat clicking as he sat up. 

“Yes. Now come on, up with you.” Bridget held out her hand, which Mark gratefully took as he hauled himself to his feet. “We’re putting you to bed, whether you like it or not.”

Mark sneezed, followed by an apology. “I can’t believe you came all the way to London and I’m laid up like this. I feel awful that you have to spend this entire weekend taking care of me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m vowing to do it for the rest of my life...why should this weekend be any different?” 

Mark pulled her into him and pressed a kiss against her temple. “If I could, I’d marry you tomorrow.” He let go of her and started to walk towards the bedroom.  

_ You can’t though, can you? No, you can’t, because you’re joining the army and leaving me here. _

Bridget shook her head, trying to dismantle the negative thoughts from her brain.

_ Stop. Stop! He needs you to be supportive. Now is not the time to bring it up. Surely he’ll tell you himself. Mark never keeps secrets. _

“Bridget, are you coming?” Mark’s congested voice sounded from the bedroom. 

“Yes, love, I’m coming.” Bridget turned all the lights off in the living room and double-checked the fireplace before entering the bedroom. Mark was already under the covers, his dressing gown draped along the foot of the bed. He had the covers pulled all the way up to his chin, the ridiculous flop of hair the only thing visible from her vantage point. Bridget smiled at the sight. 

“Get in here,” he said petulantly. “I’m freezing and need you to warm me up.”

Bridget climbed in next to him, offering an open arm for him to burrow under. He took the opportunity, nestling into the space under her arm as he draped one of his long, lanky arms across her torso. He let out a cough and a sniffle as he squeezed her tightly. “So glad you’re here,” he mumbled. Bridget dug her hand into his hair as she scratched luxurious little circles into his scalp. “Love you so much.”

“I love you too,” she whispered, bending down to kiss him. He gave a little moan of pleasure before snuggling closer. Bridget tried to not think about the letter and tried to  just enjoy the feeling of Mark against her. She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice him go boneless against her as he fell asleep.  

_ For better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A moodboard I put together for this fic](http://hisreindeerjumper.tumblr.com/post/161357431995/ill-be-seeing-you-in-all-the-old-familiar-places).
> 
> [The freaking whopper of a diamond I based Bridget's ring off of](https://erstwhilejewelry.com/collections/edwardian-engagement-rings/products/2-70-carat-edwardian-diamond-engagement-ring?utm_campaign=Pinterest%20Buy%20Button&utm_medium=Social&utm_source=Pinterest&utm_content=pinterest-buy-button-131aa9934-8bfb-45c9-a697-e68a2b35fcca).


	7. September, 1941

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I'm hoping to get this fic up & going again, so I thank any and all who have stuck around. Hopefully this chapter is worth the wait.

**2001 : London**

“He enlisted without talking to you about it?”

Molly felt betrayed. Her grandmother had painted this wonderful, noble picture of Mark Darcy--so much so that Molly felt like she was falling for him, too--and then dropped a bomb on her. Molly suddenly resented him, despite the look of fondness that Bridget still had on her face. She now looked at Molly and gave her a sad smile.

“He apparently had written me a letter that he never sent. He said that he realized it was a conversation to be had in person, so he was waiting to come back to Grafton Underwood to talk about it. Honestly, no matter what my opinion was, he would have enlisted. Mark was never someone to sit by and watch…” Bridget trailed off as she dragged the box of mementos closer to her.

“But, Gram, you must’ve been pissed off.  _ Anyone _ would’ve been pissed off.”   


“Oh, I was livid. He knew that the next morning. I had barely slept a wink all night while he snored next to me, and when the sun rose, I shoved him awake and gave him a piece of my mind.”

“How’d he take it?”

“It was our first row...at least, our first  _ terrible _ row. I think I may have even thrown the ring at him at some point. It was a blind rage that ended with him holding me while I sobbed in the middle of his living room. Not exactly romantic.”

“But he still went.”

“He still went.” With a sigh, Bridget looked at her granddaughter and said, “I could use a cuppa. Any interest?”

Molly nodded as she watched Bridget push away from the table. She padded into the kitchen and put on the kettle as Molly pulled the box back towards her. Even though her grandmother clearly loved the man, Molly couldn’t help but feel a bit of animosity towards this Mark Darcy. She couldn’t wrap her head around the idea that he loved her grandmother more than life itself, but then made a huge decision without consulting her. At the back of her mind, Molly knew that it was just how things were back then, but it still made her angry.

As she listened to her grandmother bustle around the kitchen, Molly flipped through some of the envelopes that were haphazardly thrown into the box. One had a postmark on it from 1941--the year Mark enlisted. Molly leaned back in her chair to glance into the kitchen and saw Bridget thoroughly engrossed in a box of croissants as the kettle warmed on the stovetop. 

She picked up the envelope, slid her nail underneath the flap, and extracted the letter. Across pages and pages was a neat, slanted scrawl.

 

* * *

 

_ September 3, 1941 _

_ My dearest, darling Bridget, _

_ Happy anniversary! I hope you are having a wonderful day, even though we’re miles apart. If I hadn’t felt the distance between us before, I feel it now--it sits in my chest like a malignant force, overcoming any happiness that may cross my path. Granted, happiness is a fleeting fancy as of late. I miss your face, and the sound of your voice, and the warmth of your body pressed against mine. I miss the way your nose scrunches when you laugh, and I miss the way your hair smells like jasmine. I miss riding bicycles with you through the countryside, and I miss the way you feel in my arms when we dance together. _

_ I’ll try to paint a picture of where I am right now, to give you an idea of what my life is currently like. I’m sitting in the Libyan desert, and the sun is sinking in the sky. The wind has been blowing for days, and the sand on the ground is striating into a pattern that looks like the chiffon of the red dress you wore to Samuel’s party. Despite the heat that seems to settle itself in every single pore, I have a bottle of beer that I nicked off of a friend of mine and a handkerchief filled with figs that a local man gave us. I’m trying to find the beauty in the situation--the sky is a startling shade of pink, and the last few rays of sunlight are painting the dunes gold. Camp is quiet tonight...I can hear someone playing music in a tent a few down from mine, and it sounds like there may be a card game going on in the opposite direction. _

_ I miss you. I can put it no other way. The way I feel calls for bluntness and honesty, and that is what you deserve. I know that we discussed my decision to enlist after I had already enlisted, and despite my reassurances that it was the right thing to do, I’d be remiss to lie and say that I’m content with my decision. The temptation of doing what’s right and moral outweighed my need for you, and I regret that decision every single day. In the long run, I know that I’m doing what is important, but it doesn’t negate the deep, aching loss I feel inside of me whenever I think about the sun on the bridge of your nose or the way you push your hair off of your face when you’re thinking.  _

_ I miss you I miss you I miss you _

_ I have to go now. We have an early morning tomorrow, and I need to be awake and alert for what the day holds. Just know, my sweet Bridget, that you are all I think of in my free time. I keep the picture of you at the beach tucked inside of my uniform, and sleep with it underneath my pillow.  Even in the face of war, yours is all that I see. If I close my eyes and listen closely enough, I can hear your laughter all the way from England. Please, don’t ever stop laughing--it’s one of the world’s few treasures, and it’s your job to protect it until I return to you. _

_ Please write soon. Remember, I am always yours. I’ll see you soon, my love. _

_ Yours eternally, _

_ Mark _


	8. December, 1941

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things aren't always the way Bridget expects them to be.

**2001: London**

As Molly heard Bridget returning to the dining room with teacups in hand, she laid the letter out on the table for Bridget to see. Setting the tea down, the older woman looked at the papers, her brow furrowing before softening as recognition dawned on her face.

“Ah, I was wondering if that was in there.”

Molly looked down at the letter Bridget was referring to and ran a thumb along the edge. She looked back up to where her grandmother had placed two mugs of tea on the table and gave her a small smile as Bridget sat herself back down across from Molly. 

“He seemed rather remorseful,” Molly said, reaching out to drag one of the mugs closer to her.

“He was,” Bridget replied with a small quirk of her lips. She must have seen Molly’s eyes dart back to the box, because she continued, “Oh, I didn’t know from a letter.”

Raising an eyebrow, Molly looked at Bridget quizzically. “How did you know then?” she asked, popping a Hobnob into her mouth. 

“Well, it’s kind of a long story.”

At this, Molly gave her grandmother an exasperated look. “Gram,” she said, “this entire ordeal is a long story.”

Bridget pursed her lips in acknowledgement as she tilted her head. “Fair point,” she said before grabbing her own biscuit and shoving it into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully as she stared into her mug of tea, both hands cupping the ceramic. After swallowing, she looked up and locked eyes with Molly. “His mother ended up getting very sick at the beginning of October. Pancreatic cancer. She didn’t stand a chance, really...all of his letters became sporadic and somber, and I did my damned best to be as positive as I could, but he knew she was dying. Right before Christmas, she passed away. It took her so quickly that none of us really had time to process it. The army never allowed soldiers to come home for deaths in the family, so I knew Mark would have to bear the worst of it by himself, miles away from home in a place that felt completely abnormal.”

“That’s so sad,” Molly whispered.

“Mmm, it was. Elaine Darcy was a wonderful person. For every bit of stoicism that Mark held, Elaine had double the buoyancy. She was funny and sarcastic and incredibly welcoming. Mark adored her, and she adored Mark. He  _ was _ her only son, and Mark’s father wasn’t exactly the most loving parent.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, I should have known that Mark would somehow pull strings to make it back for her funeral. He was always making the impossible possible.”

* * *

 

**December, 1941: Grafton Underwood**

It was the first December that the Darcys didn’t have their annual Christmas party.

Elaine Darcy has passed only a few days before the holiday, and she had left a gaping void in the hearts of those closest to her. The sickness had been swift and ruthless, leaving the rest of them unprepared and devastated.

On the day of the funeral, Bridget found herself approaching the front door to the Darcy estate by herself. She had one of her mother's chocolate pavlovas on a cut crystal platter—her mother had sent her ahead to the Darcy’s with the dessert, insisting that the admiral would be far more comfortable with small groups of people popping in as opposed to an entourage. The services were later that day, and Bridget already had a sense of dread building in her chest at the thought of having to face the responsibility alone. 

Balancing the pavlova, she rapped on the door with her free hand. She could feel the snow on the stoop seeping in through the leather of her shoes, and a snap of wind snaked down her back. There was the faint sound of footsteps echoing on the other side of the door, and Bridget began to mentally prepare herself for facing Admiral Darcy. 

The admiral wasn’t an emotional man. She knew that somewhere under his stoic demeanor there was a man who loved and encouraged, but it was not something he often showed to others. He had loved Elaine Darcy, but Bridget didn’t know exactly how he would be now that his wife was gone. 

The sound of the bolt disengaging from the lock snapped Bridget out of her reverie, and she straightened her posture before the door opened. The heavy slab of mahogany swung open, and before she could get a greeting out, she heard a familiar voice wash over her. 

“Hello, Bridget.”

The cut crystal in her hand went crashing to the ground as her hands flew up to her mouth. Tears immediately filled her eyes as she looked at the man in the doorway. He was exactly the same, just wearing a khaki uniform. 

“Mark,” she breathed, before launching herself forward and into his arms. 

She felt his arms come around her as he swallowed heavily. Bridget clung to him, her fingers wrapped possessively around the lapels of Mark’s jacket as she buried her face in his chest. He still smelled like soap and cinnamon, but there was a faint lingering of cigarette smoke. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek and his breath on the shell of her ear, and it was in that moment that she believed in miracles.

* * *

Several exhausting hours later, Bridget found herself in the Darcy’s sitting room, curled up on the same exact couch where Mark had proposed a year before. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace as new snow fell steadily outside. She had a well worn copy of  _ Pride and Prejudice _ in her lap, a finger lazily holding her spot somewhere around chapter six. Mark was sitting in an armchair opposite the couch. He had changed out of his military uniform and was now wearing a yellow cashmere jumper and a pair of tweed slacks.

Bridget, still wearing the black velvet dress from the funeral, watched him with incredible closeness. He was reading a novel, and his long legs were elegantly crossed at the knees. One hand held the novel he was reading in its entirety as he leaned against the other hand, which was propped up on the arm of the chair as a cigarette perched between his fingers slowly burned down. Occasionally he would lift his head to turn the page with his pointer finger, placing the cigarette between his lips each time. 

She still couldn’t believe he was here, sitting in front of her. After sobbing into his arms, they had eventually let go of each other to gently touch each other’s faces as if they were both made of thinly blown glass. He still felt the same—all sinewy limbs and long lines—but there was a bit more muscle to him. The curly mass of hair on his head was combed neatly, but thankfully not pomaded. As she watched him now, the crease that always resided between his eyebrows when he was deep in thought seemed deeper than normal, but that was to be expected.

The funeral had been surreal, and they now both sat in silence that neither dared break. Bridget had so many questions past Mark’s simple, “I did a favor for one of the generals,” in response to how he managed to make it home. She knew, though, not to push the issue--he was home, he was safe, and he was clearly in no mood to talk. She had expected that, as well. 

Even on his best of days, Mark wasn’t one to be emotional. He bottled it up inside of him like some kind of maniacal genie, and for every ounce of overreaction that Bridget held, Mark held double the fortitude. She knew that the death of his mother probably left him devastated, but she also knew that he wouldn’t show it. It would be folded with its sharp edges inside of him, the corners of it sticking him in the ribs and poking at his lungs. 

Mark now took a long, steadying breath before smashing the glowing embers of his cigarette into the ashtray next to him. He quietly shut the book in his hands, dragged a hand down his face, and looked at Bridget from across the room. A tired smile slowly spread across his face, barely reaching his eyes. 

“Thank you for being here today,” he said, his voice graveled from the cigarette.

Bridget huffed a laugh, shifting her weight so that her feet now sat on the ground in front of her. “There’s no need to thank me, Mark,” she responded. There was a pause as they smiled at each other. Placing the book on the cushion next to her, Bridget continued. “I still can’t believe you’re here. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“I knew you’d be here, darling. You’re just that kind of person--thoughtful and wonderful. Besides, there wasn’t nearly enough time to write to let you know. The general let me off only two days ago, and the flight from Libya wasn’t exactly short.” 

Mark now stood up from his spot by the fireplace and padded across the room to where the large window looked out onto the garden. He had his hands in his pockets as he gazed out into the snowfall. Something lurched in Bridget’s heart--this was where he belonged, not a Libyan desert. 

She stood up and smoothed her skirt down before walking over to where he now stood. He didn’t turn around as she slid her arms around his waist and buried her cheek into the spot between his shoulderblades. She took a deep breath as she felt Mark’s hands come up and cover her own. 

“I love you, Bridget,” he said. His voice rumbled through his torso and against Bridget’s cheek. She squeezed him more tightly, blinking back the tears that were in her eyes. 

“I love you, too,” she whispered back.

Unlatching his hands from her own, Mark slowly turned around in Bridget’s embrace until he was facing her. She looked up at him adoringly, watching the firelight dance in the amber of his eyes. He brought a thumb up to her cheekbone, slowly sweeping it back and forth against the warmth of her skin. It sent shivers down her spine. Dipping his head, Mark kissed her deeply, his tongue gently exploring her mouth with reverence. She kissed him back, hoping that he understood the emotion she was trying to convey.

Breathless, Mark pulled away and cupped her cheek once more. He smiled down at her, his gaze dipping between her eyes and her lips. 

“When did you start smoking?” she murmured, awkwardly trying to break the tension that hung around them.

At this, Mark laughed, low and honeyed. Bridget would have done anything to keep that sound ringing in her ears. His dimples were on full display, eyes alight with amusement and warmth. She lifted her hand to run her thumb along the curve of his bottom lip, dragging the pad of her finger all the way across the softness of it until it settled right in the corner where his laugh lines were the deepest. 

“It’s been a rather trying time, darling,” he replied. Bridget felt the muscles of his face flex underneath her palm. “One of the other sergeants offered me one after a rather...nasty bombing. Told me it would calm my nerves. He wasn’t wrong.” 

He paused now, the light and warmth in his eyes slowly extinguishing. Turning his head towards her hand, Mark pressed his lips into her palm. He brought his hand up to hers and cupped it, gently squeezing her fingers before bringing both hands down at their sides. 

“I have to leave tomorrow, Bridget,” he said. “Very early. I was lucky to even get this day, let alone another a night, as well.” He took a steadying breath as he gazed down at her. “Darling Bridget,” he murmured.

“Yes, Mark?” she whispered, her neck craned to fully drink his face in.

“Please stay with me tonight. Don’t leave.”

“Mark, that’s hardly appropriate,” she began. A wounded look flashed across Mark’s features before Bridget continued. “I mean--I’m sorry, that was terrible of me. Of course I’ll stay with you. Sod my parents and what they think.”

The look of hurt that marred Mark’s handsome face melted away and was replaced by his beatific smile. He dipped down again to claim her mouth with his own before standing up straight again and pulling her into his chest. She clung to him with adoration as he pressed kisses into the crown of her head. Even in her dreams, she knew the feeling of Mark’s lips against her hair. Reality far surpassed those dreams, though.

Soundlessly, Mark looped his arm around her waist and led her up the sweeping staircase in the foyer. They walked barefoot down the hallway until stopping in front of a large, ornately carved door. Mark unlooped his arm from her waist to grab the handle and push it open. Silently, the door swung forward into the room. Mark stepped over the threshold before holding out his hand to her.  
  
Bridget had never been in Mark’s childhood bedroom before. She didn’t know what to expect. It was such an intimate, personal part of his life, and the fact that Mark had even requested something so racy made her heart thump wildly in her chest. There was a fire slowly dying in the fireplace across the room, and it sent flickering shadows in every corner of the space. A large four-poster bed sat pushed against one of the walls, opposite the fireplace, and several pillows were fluffed near the headboard. Two nightstands bracketed the bed, and there were dimly lit lamps sitting atop each. On either side of the fireplace sat large bookcases, filled to the brim with novels and encyclopedias, and a roll-top desk was nestled between the two large picture windows that look out onto the front garden. There was a door to what Bridget assumed was an en suite on one side of the room, and next to it was an armoire that Mark’s military uniform hung from. 

Bridget tentatively walked into the room, running her hand along the mantel of the fireplace and peeking at the trinkets that were stowed there. There was a slingshot leaned against the corner of the mantel, and a first edition copy of  _ The Wind in the Willows _ held a place of honor in the center of the marble slab. There was a picture of Mark and his parents at what appeared to be Eton, and next to it was the photo of him and Bridget from their day in the apple orchard. 

She picked up the frame gently, holding it in her hands as the firelight flickered across it. Something had curled up inside of her chest, clawing at her throat as she looked down at the smiling faces peering back up at her. Mark entered her proximity and gently enveloped her into his arms. He placed his chin on her shoulder, gazing down at the photo in her hands.

“That’s one of my favorite days,” he said softly.

“It is?”

“Mmm,” he hummed. “The way the sunlight was hitting your hair just so has kept me warm on many a cold night. You were absolutely radiant. I wish you could have seen the way your face lit up when I suggested we do something naughty and forbidden.”

At this, Bridget grinned. She turned towards Mark’s face, her smile wide and brilliant. Mark smiled back before kissing her. She gave a small groan into his mouth, turning towards him and crushing the frame between their bodies as they passionately kissed in front of the fire. 

Pulling back, Mark said, “God, you’re beautiful.” He dug his hand into her hand, pushing it back off of her face before dipping down to kiss her again. 

It wasn’t long before the frame was forgotten, discarded on the floor next to the hearth. Hungry hands were now tearing into clothing, loosening ties, undoing buttons, and slipping off straps. In a few breathless moments, Bridget stood naked in the middle of Mark’s bedroom, panting from the escalated moment. Mark stood across from her, his jumper and shirt discarded. His braces hung on either side of his body, the slight sheen of sweat glistening in the lowlight of the room.

Bridget could now truly inspect his transformation from his time of service. Mark never carried extra weight, but he never really carried muscle, either. Now, though, his ribcage was defined with taut muscle, and his stomach was flatter than before, with shadowed ridges showing significant definition. His chest was heaving with gulps of air as his hair sat atop his head in disarray. Bridget advanced towards him, her hands immediately going to unbutton the fly of his pants before shoving them down and off of his legs. 

In one swift movement, Mark had claimed Bridget’s mouth with his own, both of his massive hands cradling her face against his. He kissed her with a desperation that Bridget never knew he could possess. She could practically feel his heart hammering in his own chest, the rhythm of it tattooing itself onto her own. She snaked her arms up and around Mark’s neck, pulling herself so close to him that there was practically no space between them. Valiantly, Mark swept her up, both of her arse cheeks cupped in his hands as she wrapped her bare legs around his waist. 

Gently, Mark dropped her onto the mattress, his mouth never leaving hers as he bent over her to better angle himself. Bridget dug her hands into the thickness of his hair, dragging her nails along his scalp, which elicited a moan from Mark that shot straight to her core. She kept her legs wrapped around his hips while she caressed Mark’s upper body--she dragged her nails from his scalp down his back, settling on his hip bones before torturously sliding them forward to his front. 

With one hand, she enclosed Mark’s member and slicked her hand up and down the shaft. He let out a groan, dropping his head against her collarbone as she whispered reassurances into his hair. She could feel his breath panting against her skin as she continued to move her hand. With fervent  _ I love you’s  _ whispered into her ear, Mark punctuated each statement with an open mouth kiss against her neck.

It wasn’t long before he stopped her, his breath coming in short, ragged breaths as he brought his hands to hers to stop her ministrations. She looked at him dolefully, admiring the way the light in the room illuminated the curls on his head. He looked down at her with pupils that were blown wide, his mouth a beautiful, swollen bow that was slightly agape.

“I don’t want to come without you,” he said, his hand still holding onto hers between their bodies.

“Then make me come,” she said coyly.

He claimed her mouth with his once more, exploring every millimeter with his tongue. Gently, he guided himself into her, and Bridget brought her hand up to her mouth and bit down on the tip of her pointer finger. Mark let out a sigh of relief as he fully sheathed himself inside of her. Slowly, he started to thrust, allowing the moment to build. 

It wasn’t long before he had snagged her bottom lip between his teeth while his forefinger and thumb played with her right breast. He rolled the nipple between his fingers until the skin became pebbled and erect. Letting go of her lip, Mark dipped his head down to take her breast into his mouth. His tongue laved on the soft skin, rolling her nipple between his lips and sucking on it until it made Bridget moan. His hips were bucking against hers at this point while she thrusted hers upwards. They were both desperate for release, chasing a high that neither of them actually wanted to catch, just to elongate the moment.

Their climaxes came simultaneously, Mark’s in a shout and Bridget’s in a throaty groan. Panting, Mark dropped his head against the curve of Bridget’s neck while his release shuddered through him. Bridget’s legs became marble before melting around Mark’s hips, gently squeezing him to help keep him grounded. After what felt like too long and not long enough, Mark lifted his head and looked down at her. Bridget sleepily smiled up at him, the corners of her mind fuzzy with endorphins. 

Solemnly, Mark dipped down to press his lips against hers. The kiss he bestowed on her wasn’t urgent or hungry, but rather sweet and gentle. When they broke apart, Mark gazed at her, his eyes trained on her own.

“I love you,” he rasped. “I loved you from the moment I saw you with that paper flower in your hair. I’ved loved you in so many ways, Bridget Jones…” He was now stroking her hair off of her face, his arm protectively cupping her head while his finger pushed back the wisps of sweat soaked hair from her forehead. “I love the way you make me laugh, and I love the way I trust you completely. Every night I pray to God that you’re safe and happy. I pray that I come home to you at the end of this blasted fucking war, and that we can finally lead a normal life. I love you, Bridget, I love you so very, very much.”

He was now crying, silent tears falling from his eyes. It was the only betrayal of his emotions--his face hadn’t crumpled, his brow hadn’t furrowed. Rather, hot tears simply fell from his eyes as he continued to look down at her, his hand still gently caressing her face. 

“Please, Bridget, promise me. If I don’t come back from this, you’ll find someone who will make you just as happy as you’ve made me. Promise me.”

“Mark, that’s impossible. I-I can’t imagine anyone making me as happy as yo-”

“Bridget, please. I can’t go through with this whole thing knowing that if I somehow don’t make it back, that you’ll go through life miserable and sad. I won’t be able to live with myself. Please, promise me.”

He was practically begging her at this point. His eyes searched hers, his mouth slightly open as he breathed heavily. Bridget swallowed thickly, her own eyes looking up at his in horror.

“Mark, I promise. I promise, I promise.” She reached up to cup his face in her hands, pulling him down to kiss him on the lips. “I promise you, Mark. I won’t let myself wallow, for your sake. But this is all nonsense. You’ll come back to me. I know you will.”

Mark dropped his head against her shoulder, allowing the weight of his burden to sag against her body. His breathing eventually slowed, and soon he was asleep. This entire time, Bridget held him close, her hand playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck while he breathed against her skin. There were so many thoughts racing through her head as Mark slumbered against her--it was evident that he hadn’t slept well in quite some time. He was peaceful and boneless against her, his arm draped across her waist. Bridget pressed her lips against his forehead as she watched the dying embers in the fireplace.

It was quite some time after Mark fell asleep that Bridget eventually drifted off herself.

* * *

 

The next morning, Bridget awoke to an empty bed. The harsh winter sun was slicing through the opening of the drapes, and Bridget could see on the bedside alarm clock that it was almost 8AM. 

Stretching languidly, Bridget peered around the room with one eye. It was clear that she was the only one in the room--Mark’s military uniform was missing from the armoire, and his duffel bag was gone. Dragging her knees up to her chest, she curled her arms around her legs. The feeling of being alone seeped into her chest, and she dropped her head to her knees. 

After some time, she lifted her head again to peer at the pillow where Mark had been only a few short hours before. On the pillowcase sat a neatly folded piece of paper with  _ Bridget _ scrawled across it in Mark’s familiar handwriting. Gently, she picked it up and began to read.

_ My sweet, darling Bridget, _

_ I am sorry to leave you this way. As I told you yesterday, I had to be gone early--the plane back to Libya was promptly leaving, and you looked so beautiful lying on my sheets that I didn’t want to wake you. The image of you with your halo of hair on my pillow will be something that I will think of often in the scorching sun of the Libyan desert, and the weight of you against me will ease the cold desert nights when I feel like I have lost all hope. _

_ Please know, my love, that I am thinking of you always. Even in the face of death, it is your face that I am seeing. It brings me hope, and joy, and sometimes even laughter. There is an inextinguishable light inside of you, Bridget, and it guides me back to where you are. These next few months, years, will be horrible without you, but always know that I am with you in thought. I am thinking of your hands, and your eyes, and the way you scream my name when you reach euphoria.  _

_ I am thinking of you always. _

_ Even though these weren’t the greatest of circumstances to see you again, I am thankful for them nonetheless. Mother loved you almost as much as I do, and I take great comfort in knowing that she cared for you deeply. You know that I do not do emotional declarations very well--I am devastated by her loss, but I am hopeful that you are still here when I return.  _

_ The sun is now rising as I write this letter. The sky is a beautiful hue of red and yellow, with just the slightest tinge of purple on the horizon. I’ll be flying towards that horizon in only a mere couple of hours. I must be going, my love. I do not want to, but I must. You are next to my heart, nestled against my breastbone as my pulse taps out a song that’s only for you. _

_ I will see you soon. We must keep telling ourselves this to make it easier. Soon is better than never. Goodbye, my love. Thank you for everything. _

_ All of my love, forever and always, _

_ MFD _

Bridget folded the letter back in half, holding it to her chest as she gazed around the room. Her eyes settled on the mantle where she had inspected all of Mark’s beloved memories only a few hours before. The slingshot and book were still present, as well as the photo of Mark and his parents.

The picture of her and Mark, though, was gone. The frame was empty, staring at her from across the room.

It was in that moment that Bridget broke down, her body racked with sobs as she clutched Mark’s letter to her chest. She fell back among the pillows, burying her face in the down and linen as she finally let out all of the emotions she had been holding in for weeks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just kind of assumed that Mark's brilliant legal mind could help one of the higher-ups in some kind of bind, thus granting him the chance to return to England for his mother's funeral. Everything I researched said that this was far from possible, but a girl can dream, can't she?


	9. June, 1942

**2001: London**

Bridget now sat across from Molly, staring dejectedly into the mug of tea that was between her hands. She was running her thumb along the edge of the mug, her mind clearly somewhere besides the space between them. Overcome with emotion, Molly reached across the table and grabbed her grandmother’s wrist. Wordlessly, Bridget turned her hand over and grasped Molly’s hand. Molly gave it a squeeze, giving her grandmother a sad smile from across the table.

A few moments passed before Molly said, “So, was that the last time you saw Mark?”

Bridget finally pulled her eyes up from the mug of tea in front of her and looked at her granddaughter. There was something swimming in the blue of her eyes that Molly had never seen before. It was some kind of emotion that didn’t quite register as sadness and didn’t quite register as nostalgia. It was distant and soft, with just a hint of regret in the corners of her eyes. 

Without a word, Bridget simply nodded before taking her hand from Molly’s and using it to rummage through the papers in the box between them. After several moments, she produced an envelope that was wrinkled and stained. It had an official looking seal on it, the edges of it rimmed in red and blue.

“Admiral Darcy dropped this off to my house after he received it. I...I didn’t get one because we weren’t officially married yet. I suppose he felt obligated to let me know.”

Pushing it across the table, Bridget tilted her head towards the letter, beckoning Molly to read it. Molly took it from her hand, slid open the flap of the envelope, and pulled out the letter. Only two sentences in, her hand gently came to her mouth as tears filled her eyes.

* * *

 

**June, 1942: Grafton Underwood**

Bridget sat on the edge of her bed, the  letter from Admiral Darcy laying in her lap as her chest heaved with desperation. Fat, hot tears fell from her eyes and dribbled along the paper, dragging the ink along in their wake. Her hands were trembling and her breath simply wouldn’t catch in her lungs. The world felt like it was crashing around her and she didn’t know what to do.    


The Admiral had showed up to her parents’ house, stony faced and saying very little. He had awkwardly held the letter in one hand and his hat in the other. Bridget immediately noticed the way his face was creased with worry and the way he was clearing his throat every few minutes. 

Unceremoniously, he had shoved the envelope towards Bridget as he muttered, “Elaine would have been much better in this situation, but I felt like you should also have the opportunity to read this.” The letter was in Bridget’s hands no less than two minutes before the Admiral hastily excused himself from the Jones’s entryway. 

She had now been sitting in her bedroom for over an hour, the door locked and her mother still sitting on the other side of it. Every so often, she would gently knock on the door and murmur through the opening underneath, “Bridget, can I please come in now?” 

Bridget still hadn’t answered her. 

With trembling fingers, Bridget picked up the letter once more, and skimmed through the message. Sadly, with each reading, the shards of her heart remained broken. She had a feeling that they’d never properly heal.

_ Dear Admiral Darcy, _

_ It is with great regret that I am writing this letter to confirm my previous telegraph in regards to your son, Mark F. Darcy. He has been reported as missing in action as a result of a decoy attack from the Axis troops on our camp. I wish to convey my deepest sympathies and regrets to you and your family. I can only imagine the anxiety that you have while waiting for news.  _

_ Your son went missing during a firefight between our squadron and the German army. Several of our men were captured during this fight, while we lost many more. It is unclear which category your son falls into. It is my sincerest hope that I will be able to write to you soon with less somber news. You will be notified immediately if any information is gathered. _

_ Second Lieutenant Darcy was a huge asset to our squadron and his absence is greatly impacting the morale of his fellow troops. His kit has been collected and safeguarded, and it will be forwarded to you in due course through the British Army.  _

_ If there is any way in which I can help you by advice or information, please do not hesitate to let me know. _

_ Yours sincerely, _

_ Captain Reginald Sandhurst _

Gently, Bridget creased the letter back where it had been folded and slid it into the envelope. She stood up, smoothed down the front of her skirt before swiping at the tears on her cheeks with the heels of her hands. Grabbing the letter, she crossed the room to where the door was. 

Taking a steadying breath, she opened the door to find her mother slumped against the wall across the hallway. Seeing Bridget, she quickly stood up and rushed over to where her daughter now stood. Bridget gave her a shaky smile, holding the letter up between them. 

“What is it, darling? What’s wrong?”

Bridget went to respond, but no words came out. Instead, a choked sob erupted out of her before she collapsed into Pamela Jones’s arms. She felt her mother’s embrace as she buried her face into her neck, sobs shuddering through her body. 

All Pam Jones could do was making soothing sounds and pet the back of Bridget’s head while she silently cried above her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sad interlude to a hopefully happy ending. Don't quit on me just yet :)


	10. November, 2001

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonderful comments on the last chapter! I'm hoping to post the final chapter VERY soon (like, maybe hopefully tonight? We'll see how much I can knock out). I can't thank you enough for sticking with me this entire time--now that I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, the words are coming much more easily, and it's so relieving to see it come to fruition! I couldn't have done it without your encouragement! <3

_ <From: _ [ _mollybcleaver@aol.com_ ](mailto:mollybcleaver@aol.com) _ > _

_ <To: _ [ _florencedarcy@aol.com_ ](mailto:florencedarcy@aol.com) _ > _

_ <October 28, 2001 @ 1:45 AM> _

_Hello!_

_I hope this isn’t too terribly awkward. I’ve rewritten this email approximately fifteen times now in the hopes to make it sound far less strange and a bit more approachable, but alas, it seems that I’m doomed to just sound creepy and weird. It may also be sleep deprivation talking, because I’ve taken approximately four hours to rewrite it the fifteen times, so who knows._

_ANYWAY, I’m writing to you because I think my grandmother may know your father. I know this is random and probably alarming on some level, but she has been telling me about him (if he’s the same person, of course), and I was so intrigued by his story that I decided to do some research online to see if I could find his obituary (she thought him dead). After a few days of mindless scrolling and sporadic searches, I came across an article in The Spectator archives about a lawyer named Mark F. Darcy._

_The article went on to say that this particular Mark Darcy was a World War II veteran, living in Geneva, married to his wife of 40 years (I believe the name of his wife was Nina?). It was an article covering his work in human rights law, especially right after the war. There was mention of him losing some time--I’m assuming it was war related?--after a bout of amnesia from a battle he was involved in. What piqued my interest in your father was that the battle mentioned occurred in Libya, and according to my grandmother, the Mark she knew was reported Missing in Action after the Battle of Gazala._

_Now that I’ve rambled, allow me to get to the real nitty gritty of this email. I’m reaching out to you because your father (if he’s the Mark Darcy that I’m thinking he is) was engaged to my grandmother during the war. She’s gone her entire life thinking that he’s dead--she married someone else (my grandfather), but I can see in her face that it was always Mark Darcy that she truly loved. We had found a box of mementos in her flat that she’s kept all these years. It’s full of letters from your father, photographs that he took, and a diamond ring that would make your jaw drop._

_If I’m completely wrong in this situation, I apologize profusely. I’m also presuming that your mother is still alive? I wouldn’t want to disrespect her in anyway. I just want to give my grandmother some closure on the situation if I can. Besides, the entire thing, if it’s true, is terribly thrilling and romantic, and I can’t stop myself from grinning when I think about it._

_Her name is Bridget Cleaver (well, Jones was her maiden name). If it rings a bell to him, I’d love to see if we can set up a meeting._

_Thank you for your time!_

_Sincerely,_

_Molly Cleaver_

* * *

 

_ <From: [florencedarcy@aol.com ](mailto:florencedarcy@aol.com)_ _> _

_ <To: [mollybcleaver@aol.com ](mailto:mollybcleaver@aol.com)_ _> _

_ <November 4, 2001 @ 4:27 PM> _

_Dear Molly,_

_I’m sorry it’s taken me a few days to return your email. I have to be honest, when I first read it, I thought it was a scam. Everything you wrote seemed far fetched and grandiose, and it bothered me. Your email kept me up at night, and my own lack of sleep finally pushed me to broach the subject with my father._

_It turns out that your research was quite effective. My father remembers your grandmother very well. He blushed a bit when I brought her up, and I could tell that he was uncomfortable (I assume it was embarrassment over not contacting her), but after speaking with him at length, he told me a story very similar to the one you conveyed to me._

_My own mother passed away a few years ago, so my father has been on his own for quite some time. The look on his face when I mentioned Bridget to him was something I find very hard to forget. I believe that my father loved my mother very much, but like you said in your email, there’s clearly something between my father and your grandmother that they couldn’t find in someone else._

_We both currently still reside in Geneva, but we’d be happy to make arrangements to meet with you and your grandmother. My father traveled to London quite regularly during his times as a barrister, and I have many contacts there for my own work (I am an arts dealer). If it works for you, we could come to London the third week of November. I’ve already discussed it with my father and he is in full agreement._

_Please let me know as soon as possible so I can book flights._

_Yours,_

_Florence_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly is basically a mini Bridget *shrug*


	11. November, 2001

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you! You are all amazing & wonderful & I hope this ending is enough to fix the hurt from before <3

**2001 : London**

When Bridget walked into her son’s Chiswick home, the energy radiating off of her granddaughter was practically snapping. She hastily took Bridget’s coat and scarf from her, hanging them up on the coatrack by the entryway before practically frog marching Bridget down the hallway. 

“Molly, what in God’s name is going on?” Bridget said, glancing over her shoulder at the manic expression on her granddaughter’s face.

“I have a surprise,” Molly replied. 

“Is holding me like this really necessary?” Bridget twisted her arm in Molly’s grip, giving it a gentle tug to try and loosen her fingers.

“Yes, it is,” Molly said curtly.

Bridget continued to glare at Molly over her shoulder as she was forcibly guided down the hallway. They reached the end of the hall where the door to the living room was opened a crack. Light from the room was spilling onto the wooden floor through the slit in the door, and Bridget could make out the faint murmuring of voices. 

“Who’s here?” she asked Molly, finally wrenching her arm free from her granddaughter’s grasp.

“That’s the surprise. Don’t be a nib.”

Stepping around Bridget, Molly pushed the door open and stepped into the living room. She turned back to Bridget and beckoned her inside. Tentatively, Bridget stepped over the threshold and looked at the figure sitting in the armchair that was facing the door.

It was a woman in her mid to late forties. She had a beautiful mane of curly brown hair that framed her face, and a luminous pair of green eyes peered at her through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. The color of her eyes didn’t seem familiar, but the shape did. So did the laugh lines. The woman stood and crossed the space between herself and Bridget, her arm extended. 

Politely, Bridget took the woman’s hand and shook it. She glanced out of the corner of her eye to Molly, who was standing off to the side with her hands clasped in front of her. 

“Gram, I’d like you to meet Florence. Florence, this is my grandmother, Bridget Cleaver.” 

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Cleaver,” Florence said. Her voice had a recognizable timbre to it, soaked in a French accent. It stirred something distant in Bridget’s mind, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on it.

“It’s very nice to meet you, as well,” Bridget said. She let go of Florence’s hand and turned her head to Molly. “Although, I have to be honest, I’m not quite sure why we’re meeting. Molly has me under the impression that this was supposed to be a surprise, but I haven’t the faintest idea of where I would know you from.”

Florence began to speak, but she was cut off by a voice from the other side of the room. 

“I’d be very surprised if you did,” the voice said. Bridget turned her head to where the voice was coming from, and it settled on the back of another armchair. A mass of soft grey curls sat on top of the person’s head, and Bridget watched with baited breath as the figure in the chair slowly stood up.

The top of the speaker’s head slowly started to rise as they stood up, and Bridget watched as a pair of slightly stooped, yet deliciously broad shoulders appeared. The person was wearing a soft, oatmeal colored jumper over a white collared shirt, and there was something about their posture that Bridget recognized. 

But it was impossible.

The speaker was now standing at full height, his back still to Bridget. She watched as he grabbed the hem of his jumper and adjusted it, making sure it was smooth and situated before he turned around. She didn’t even notice that she had stopped breathing or that her palms were sweating. All she could focus on was the man in front of her and the way his face felt like home.

“Mark?” she whispered.

“Hello, Bridget,” he said. His face--a map of wrinkles and lines--broke into the smirk that Bridget could sketch in her sleep. 

Tears were now threatening to spill over her eyelashes as she took a small step towards him. The sunlight from the picture window illuminated his face, and she could see that he, too, was crying. The smirk had now expanded into a full on grin as he shoved his hands into his pockets and took a step towards her. 

“Where the  _ fuck _ have you been?” she said.

At this, Mark laughed, loud and full, the sound of it vibrating off the walls and settling in her bones. He took his hands out of his pockets and reached his hands out, urging her to take them. As if by second nature, Bridget took them. They were the same long fingers, the same broad palms, just with a few more spots. She looked down at them, holding them in her own hands as the electricity of Mark’s body being so close to hers fired through her body like pistons. His hands were shaking a bit, the slightest tremor vibrating in her hands.

“I’m not sure if that’s my nerves or the Parkinson’s,” he murmured above her.

Bridget let out a choked laugh, looking up at him for the first time. His eyes still sparkled with the amber warmth that she had fallen in love with. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were deep, and he peered at her through a pair of dark rimmed glasses. He was jowlier, the lines around his mouth heavy and creased. All of these changes, though, didn’t take away from how handsome he was. 

“You owe me a very,  _ very _ good explanation,” Bridget said. Without breaking eye contact, she brought Mark’s shaking hands up to her lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. She watched as his eyes shut and his breath caught in his throat. She swept her thumbs along the backs of his hands before dropping them to his sides and stepping into his space. Instinctively, Mark brought his arms up and around her, pressing his own lips against the crown of her head as she tightly wrapped her own arms around his waist. 

“Luckily for me, I have an explanation. Whether or not it’s a good one is up to your discretion,” he murmured into her hair. 

Somewhere behind her, Bridget could hear Molly ushering Florence out of the sitting room. Their departure was signaled by the soft click of the door shutting behind them. Bridget took a step back and grabbed Mark by the forearms. She looked back up into his face, her eyes roving over the features that she thought she’d never get to see in person again.

“You’re grey,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I’m old,” he replied.

“So am I. I’m surprised this hasn’t given me a heart attack.”

Mark laughed again. 

“I almost had one myself when Florence came to me about you.”

“And Florence is…?” Bridget trailed off, scared of the response that Mark would give.

“My daughter. My only child. My late wife and I weren’t keen on having children, and Florence was somewhat of an accident. A very happy accident, mind you, but an accident nonetheless.”

“Ah,” Bridget said, nodding. “So you  _ were  _ married.”

“Just as you were.”

Bridget now walked around Mark and settled on the loveseat that was underneath the window. She patted the cushion next to her, crossing her legs at the ankles. Mark made his way over to the spot next to Bridget. He moved much more slowly than the Mark she knew, but it was with the same elegance and grace that he had possessed sixty years ago. WIth a huff, he sat next to Bridget and crossed his own legs at the knee. He lay his hand between them, palm up. Without second though, Bridget took the invitation and slid her hand into his. His fingers enveloped hers, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“How did you know I was married?” Bridget asked, looking down at their clasped hands.

“Besides your granddaughter referring to you as ‘Mrs. Cleaver’?”

Bridget chuckled at this. “Yes, besides that.”

“I’ve known since nineteen-fifty. That’s most of the reason I didn’t contact you.”

“Well, what about those eight years between you disappearing and me getting married?” There was an edge to Bridget’s voice that she couldn’t control--it was razor sharp and with a bit more aggression than she intended. 

“Fair question. I received a rather nasty blow to the head when we were attacked. I was unconscious for hours after the end of the battle, lying in the Libyan sun while men were being removed on stretchers. Luckily for me, a camel herder came across me later that night. He was able to transport me to a nearby Allied camp. I suffered from amnesia for the better part of two years. Things came back to me slowly, and only in chunks. I could see your face, but didn’t know your name, or I could hear your voice in my head but had no idea who you were.”

He paused, taking a steadying breath. 

“As you know, my father died in that time. Once all of my memory returned, I had no ties to Grafton Underwood besides you. I came back, to see you, but I found the whole prospect of surfacing from the dead somewhat overwhelming and I didn’t want to upset you. You had promised me that you would find someone if I didn’t come back, so I just assumed you had kept your word. I didn’t even bother going to your parents’ house, and I made the house staff swear to keep my return a secret.

“After that, I decided to help the war effort from a legal perspective. I moved to Geneva to work on human rights cases that had cropped up during the war. I knew you were out in the world somewhere, making some man’s life incredibly happy, and I didn’t want to ruin that for you. You deserved happiness, Bridget. It wouldn’t be fair for me to come crawling back from beyond the grave and turning your entire existence upside down.”

Hot tears were now rolling down Bridget’s cheeks as she watched Mark tell his story. He hadn’t been able to look at her as he spoke, but his thumb had been worrying at the lines of her hand. 

“How could you ever think that I’d be happy with you in the world and me not with you?” she whispered.

Mark now looked at her. His eyes glistened and his jaw was set in a stoic line. He shook his head solemnly. 

“I realize now what a huge mistake that was,” he replied, looking back down at their hands. Gently, he brought the back of Bridget’s hand up to his mouth and pressed his lips against it. Bridget felt herself sob at the sensation. “I hope you can forgive me, Bridget.”

Shifting her weight, Bridget turned towards Mark and cupped his cheeks between her hands. She soothingly ran her fingers along the gaunt cheekbones where his glasses perched, and she watched Mark close his eyes. 

“Mark Darcy, you are an absolute idiot,” she said. 

His eyes opened at this, mischief and amusement glittering in the irises. 

“An idiot who hasn’t stopped loving you for sixty years,” he said. His voice was graveled with emotion as he brought his hands up to cover hers. “Can I kiss you?” 

WIthout a reply, Bridget leaned forward and kissed him. The feeling of Mark’s lips against hers again after decades of going without the sensation was overwhelming. It was familiar and exhilarating at the same time, and Bridget couldn’t help pressing fervently against him. She felt Mark’s arms come around her and pull her closer to him, his mouth gently kissing her cheeks and her eyelids and her forehead. He paused as he leaned his forehead against hers. She could feel his labored breathing as he held her tightly. Bridget was grasping onto the fabric of his jumper, anchoring herself in the moment from fear of losing him again. 

“I have something to show you,” he murmured after a few moments. Gently, he pulled himself away from Bridget and rummaged around in his pocket. Bridget watched him with interest, her hands folded in her lap as he struggled to remove the item. Soon, he pulled a weathered looking photograph from his trouser pocket. He smoothed it out with his fingers before turning it towards Bridget. “Remember this?”

In Mark’s hand was the photo of them in the apple orchard. It was crinkled and an edge was torn, but the memory of it was pristine. Mark had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hat pushed back on his head. His arm was securely wrapped around Bridget’s waist as she laughed gaily in his embrace. It looked exactly as it had in her mind for all those years after it disappeared from the mantel in Mark’s bedroom. 

“You’ve kept this for all these years?” she said, taking it from his fingers.

“It’s no different than the box of letters and photographs you kept.”

Bridget shot him a look. “What  _ didn’t _ Molly tell you?” she muttered, inspecting the photograph more closely.

“I have to say,” Mark chuckled, “I’m glad to see the Jones gene of relentless pursuit hasn’t died out.” 

Bridget rolled her eyes and laughed. She placed the photograph on the coffee table in front of them and scooted towards Mark. Without prompting, he lifted his arm and silently invited her into his side. She curled up next to him, wrapping an arm across his torso as she pillowed her head on his shoulder. The heavy weight of his arm around her shoulders created a warmth that bloomed in her chest, and she suddenly felt exhausted. 

“I’ve waited so long for this,” she murmured. “I never in a million years thought I’d get it back.”

“Me either, my love,” he said, pressing his cheek onto the top of her head. “Sixty years worth of waiting, though, is worth this moment.”

“How long are you staying in London?” she asked. His answer worried her--she wasn't sure she could give up having him now that he was here.

“My darling Bridget,” he said. “Now that I’m here, I’m never leaving again.”

With his answer, Bridget felt sweet relief fill her lungs as she broke down and cried in his arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, talk about a rollercoaster. Please let me know what you think in the comments! This is the longest fic I've ever written, & despite it being a total labor of love, I really enjoyed fleshing out the story & putting it all together! I'd love to know what you think!


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